
Class _B.-^1A 
Book i Fl^ 



BY THE WAY 




Photographed by 
Steffens, Chicago 



BY THE WAY 



AGNESS GREENE FOSTER 



CHICAGO 

EVENTS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1903 






Copyright, 1903 

BY 

AGNESS GREENE FOSTER 



By transfer' 






r 



^ My Dear : 

=^ " When at the first I took my pen in hand 
Thus for to write ; I did not understand 
That I at all should make a little book 
In such a mode ; Nay, I had undertook 
To write a letter, which when almost done, 
Before I was aware I this begun. 
* * * But yet I did not think 
To show to all the world my pen and ink 
In such a mode ; I only thought to make — 
I knew not what : nor did I undertake 
Thereby to please my neighbor ; no not I, 
I did it mine own self to gratify. " 

And thus it was, one bright September day, 
Full suddenly I finished " By the Way." 



BY THE WAY 



En Route, May 5. 
NDEED and in truth, one is 
rarely natural save under deep 
^A emotions. After all my resolu- 

^V tions and determinations, I found 

I^^L I was not able to part from those 
^^^ I love with any degree of compos- 
^-■^1 ure. Was I not brave to keep up 
as well as I did, at parting from you? 
But I do assure you that I did not stay 
"up" very long, for as the cruel train 
pulled out, and I saw, through a mist of 
tears, that dear form fade from sight, I 
broke down, and remained "down" all the 
afternoon and evening. With this morning's 
bright sunshine and your telegram, how- 
ever, I am a man (?) again. 

After leaving you we ran along the shores 
of Lake Michigan, with the whitecaps on 



8 By the Way 

the light green waves dashing upon the 
sands. Indiana is further advanced than 
the more northwestern states, and the trees 
with their pretty pink blossoms look quite 
spring-like. We are passing through orchards 
and orchards of peach-trees, which stand 
out and make the one bright spot in the 
landscape, for it still rains, and the car is 
cold. 



Washington, May 6. 
The first sound I heard this morning was, 
"Here's a message for you, miss," and 
straightway that porter's name goes ratthng 
down the rocky road of history as a dis- 
cerning and right-minded person. What 
married woman of — well — let's say thirty, to 
avoid argument, does not enjoy being called 
"Miss"? And yet she'd not feel that way if 
the tables were turned. But to go back to 
my telegram. It served as my dejeuner a la 
felicite. I sent the answer back from Balti- 
more, and from that moment I was happy. 
Who shall say that all is not Mind ? Not I, 



By the Way 9 

indeed, after the peace of heart that has 
taken possession of me since the coming of 
that dear message. 

The view from the car window this morn- 
ing differs greatly from that of yesterday, 
and I think I hke best these great black 
pines standing among the light green ever- 
greens, both sparkling with the diamond- 
like drops left from yesterday's rain, making 
the Cumberland Mountains a dream of 
beauty. I am wondering if I -shall see any- 
thing so lovely as Washington. Each ave- 
nue in the city is white with its pavement 
of asphalt, and is flanked on either side with 
great trees. Above it all towers the dome of 
the capitol, and my heart throbs with 
patriotism and thankfulness that I am 
permitted to see it all before I leave my 
native land. It did not take long to get my 
letters and credentials, which entitle me to 
the international courtesies of the Paris 
Conservatoire and Trinity College in Dublin, 
and now I am off for Philadelphia. 



lo By the Way 

Philadelphia, May 7. 
Cora met me at the station and went 
with me to the ship, which we found at her 
dock at the foot of Washington Street. We 
made our way through the long hne of 
people who were busy identifying their 
luggage or getting off to friends the ship's 
printed Hst of passengers. Cora was a great 
comfort and help to me. The ship was so 
white and clean, and I was so pleased over 
our nice state-room, that I forgot for a 
moment the big lump in my throat, but I 
do not comprehend why people allow those 
near and dear to them to come to see them 
off. Nothing could have kept me on that 
boat had my nearest and dearest been stand- 
ing on the dock. Ruth and Charlotte are 
here at last, and Ruth has with her a little 
Icelander. I am sending these Hues back 
with the pilot. I wish he were to take me 
instead of the letter. How I envy it! 

S. S. Waesland, May 11. 

There has been no writing on board this 

ship for the past four days, and very Httle 



By the Way n 

sleeping, and less eating. Every one is sick 
except Ruth, a few of the men, and myself. 
Those of us who were able to crawl up on 
deck were lashed to our steamer-chairs and 
the chairs were lashed to the deck. 

The ride down the Delaware occupied the 
entire day. We passed the shipyards and 
Atlantic City near enough to get an idea of 
the hfe there. The pilot left at six in the 
evening. Every one on board rushed to 
the side to see the sailors lower him into 
his little boat, and I watched him as far 
as the eye could see, for he carried with 
him my last message to you. 

We no sooner struck the breakwater than 
the ship began to roll and toss, and it has 
continued for four days without cessation, 
for we are following in the wake of a storm. 
Charlotte and the little Icelander were taken 
violently ill almost at once, so Ruth has the 
latter with her and I have Charlotte. I 
must say she is the most considerate person 
I ever heard of, who is batthng with mal 
de mer, and I am as comfortable as this 
rolhng old ocean will permit. 



12 By the Way 

You asked me to tell you every little 
detail of life on board ship. You little know 
the task you set me; and right here I desire 
to put myself on record as begging the pardon 
of every writer on this subject for my unkind 
thoughts of them. I see now, after only 
five days on shipboard, why all descriptions 
are so unsatisfactory to those who have never 
experienced it. 

In the first place, the word "deck" is most 
inadequate. One naturally thinks that a 
"deck" is an open space on the top of a ship, 
similar to that of a river steamboat. The 
decks are in reality nice, wide piazzas — nice, 
when the sea is quiet. On them the passen- 
gers congregate — when all is well with them 
and with the elements. I say "up on deck," 
when it is only "out on the veranda." It is 
not necessary to climb a ladder set straight 
up in air as we did on the St. Lawrence River 
packet before shooting the Lachine Rapids. 
Flights of easy stairs connect the various 
floors. These stairs are dancing continually, 
but one soon gets used to it if one has his 
"sea legs," and usually arrives safely. This 



By the Way 13 

ship is similar to an oval house of several 
stories, with galleries or verandas running 
completely around each story, and any 
number of basements and sub-basements; 
but with these we have nothing to do. 

As I crossed the gang-plank I landed on the 
saloon deck and entered the only door on that 
side. I found myself in a small hallway, out 
of which opened the ladies' saloon and the 
writing-rooms, and from which the stairs 
descend to the floor where the dining-room 
and most of the berths are situated. My 
state-room is on the top story, so I have only 
to step from our hallway onto the main deck. 

I read the description which I have just 
written to the captain, and I wish you could 
have heard him shout. He begged me to 
permit his "tiger" to make a copy of it for 
him, and I did, but I was sorry the moment 
it left my hands, for I know it is most absurd, 
and it was intended for you only. Never- 
theless, I'll venture the assertion that those 
who know will readily see the picture, and 
those who do not know will get a pretty good 
idea of how it looks. 



14 By the Way 

Mid-Atlantic, May 12. 
Every one is out to-day, and as it is cold, 
the entire saloon-deck is lined with a much- 
wrapped, many-rugged assembly, whose 
chairs are fastened to the house-side of the 
deck, while those who have their sea-legs are 
marching to and fro in front of the line of 
chairs. The deck steward has the chairs 
placed for us each morning on the side free 
from the winds. Most of the time these past 
days I have been sitting in my chair looking 
at my feet, first with the sea and then the 
sky as a background. 



Opf Queenstown, May 18. 
• Oh, blessed day ! We saw land for a few 
moments, and I have your dear letters — two 
happy events. I ran away with my letters 
and have written answers to them which 
are for your eyes alone. That reminds me 
to say, that I think it would be better for me 
to write on one sheet of paper a wee bit of a 
letter to you, telling you a few of the many 
nice things I think of you, and which will 




MID-ATLANTIC 



1 6 By the Way 

interest no one but you. On another sheet 
I will tell of the places I see and the people I 
meet, and this you may send to the friends 
who are self-sacrificing enough to say they 
would like to read about this little journey of 
mine. 

I found on this ship the usual number of 
wise — and otherwise — passengers, a few of 
whom are most interesting. Mr. and Mrs. 
P., of Philadelphia, who are well-known 
philanthropists; an Englishman, whose care 
and attention to an invalid wife and child 
forever clear his countrymen from the con- 
tumely of indifference to their families; Mrs. 
F. and her son; Mr. L., a noted organist; 
Mr. and Mrs. W., of Japan; and Mr. Elbert 
Hubbard, the author. 

Ruth and I are seated at the table at the 
right and left of the dear old captain. The 
table is served beautifully, and the viands are 
delicious. We really try not to ask too 
many questions, but I am afraid our en- 
deavors are a failure. Were I a captain of 
one of these ocean liners, I'd have some- 
thing like the following hung in each state- 



By the Way ry 

room, along with "How to put on this Ufe- 
preserver when drowning": 

First. This ship is fire-proof, water- 
proof, and mat de mer proof. 

Second. We will positively land on the 

day of , or on the next day, or 

surely the next. 

Third. The captain is (or is not) married, 
as the case may be. I should advise that 
it be written "is" in either case, to save 
trouble. 

These American liners carry only a limited 
number of first-cabin passengers, with much 
freight, and they are slow, taking usually 
nine days for the ocean voyage, which, 
together with the day down the Delaware, 
another up the channel, and the delay 
caused by the storm, will keep us on board 
thirteen days. It is because of the slow 
speed and the limited number of passengers 
that this line is patronized by such a delightful 
class of people, who go chiefly for the rest 
obtained on the sea. 



1 8 By the Way 



St. George's Channel, May 19. 

"Floating around in my ink-pot" are 
many things which I intend to tell you some 
fine day, but not now, with the unsteady 
condition of this writing-table. Just a word 
to-day about my fellow- travelers. No one 
seemed to know Mr. Elbert Hubbard, neither 
did he appear eager for acquaintances. I 
met him in the most natural manner. Some 
one asked me to read at the sacred concert 
on Sunday evening. While I was reading I 
noticed an earnest, dark-eyed man listening 
attentively. After the service of song was 
ended he came at once to the young clergy- 
man who conducted the service and asked 
to be presented. He has a calm, quiet 
atmosphere, and resembles a courteous 
gentleman of the old school. Fortunately I 
knew the "Little Journeys" and Thomas 
Mosher's "Bibelot," which proved an open 
sesame. 

He talks well upon every subject, is a 
charming listener, is modest and retiring, 
and devoted to the young son, who is his 
constant companion. He reads or writes 



By the Way 19 

almost continually, and talks to few save 
the ship's surgeon, who is "bookish." 

Mrs. F., of Boston, is another interesting 
passenger, who reminds me of the Arabian 
proverb: "He who knows not, and knows 
not that he knows not, is a fool; shun him. 
He who knows not, and knows that he knows 
not, is simple; teach him. He who knows, 
and knows not that he knows, is asleep; 
wake him. He who knows, and knows that 
he knows, is wise; follow him." 

Mrs. F. is one whom I should be willing to 
follow. She has with her an invalid son, 
who looks older than she. She and their 
servants seem to vie one with another to 
bring comfort to the invalid. They did not 
appear on deck for many days, and kept 
entirely to themselves. The mother came 
up one of those days when I was alone on 
the deck. Joe, our deck steward, placed us 
in Ruth's two chairs, one of which she had 
just vacated, while he and the lady's servant 
fetched our chairs. When the chairs ap- 
peared they were identical, and with the 
same initials on them. Joe knew mine 



20 By the Way 

well, and the lady's servant knew hers. As 
the chairs were brought neither of us spoke, 
but our eyes met and we laughed. 

After a few moments, "I wonder," said 
she, "if they are spelled the same, too." ''I 
doubt it," I replied. That was all. The 
servants stared in wonder and left. She 
smiles and bows each time we meet, and I 
must confess I'd like to know her name. On 
the sailing list it is given as Mrs. Wilburn 
Godfrey F. and maid. Mr. W. G. F., Jr., 
and servant. Shall I ever know how her 
given name is spelled? 

We missed the tide, so the boat will not 
be able to land us at the dock, but, instead, 
we shall be compelled to go in on a tender, 
which is approaching in the distance. 



England 



"Oh! to be in England — 
Now that April's there! 
Whoever wakes in England sees some morning, 

unaware, 
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf; 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England — now!" 

Robert Browning. 



ENGLAND 

Liverpool. 

We landed at eleven o'clock and I went 
immediately and sent a cable to you. In 
paying for it, my first money transaction 
in England, I was given too little change, 
which stamps me as fresh from America and 
not up in shillings, pence, and ha'pennies. 
The contents of our letters made it necessary 
to change some of our plans. Charlotte is 
not able to go to France, and instead goes 
direct to her sister in London; the little 
Icelander is off for Norway; and a telegram 
to Ruth from Lady Henry Somerset, com- 
pelling her to go north for a few days, will 
separate us for that length of time. Ruth 
begs me to accompany her, but I have 
promised to be in Paris before Adelaide 
leaves there, so this merry family of ours 
separates to meet — (?) 

You are a very satisfactory sort of corre- 
spondent, for you bid me tell how one should 
go to London from Liverpool, what to see, 

23 



24 By the Way 

and the little details not known to the 
stranger, not forgetting the necessary ex- 
penses. Ruth has been here many times, 
and knows every spot of interest, and she 
has mapped out a route for me to take until 
she can join me. 

After going through the ' ' Customs, ' ' 
which, by the way, is easier in European 
countries than in America, we started at 
once for London, via the Great Western 
railway. Speaking of the ' ' Customs, ' ' they 
have sort of aisles, in which the trunks are 
arranged, and one is not allowed to enter 
until all is ready. Hanging in conspicuous 
places are the letters of the alphabet, and a 
man at the door asks your name, and you 
are directed to the proper aisle. The officer 
first looks you over, then asks: "Have you 
any spirits" (not ghosts, but liquors), 
"cigars, or English copyrighted books?" 
I answered "No," of course, and the blue 
chalk mark was placed on my luggage with- 
out further question, and a splendid-look- 
ing porter was called to carry it to my car- 
riage. The woman behind me, too, said 



By the Way 25 

''No," just as I did, but she, it seems, had 
a dear man all her own, and the ofl&cer said, 
''I will have to trouble you to open the 
trunks for me." Apparently the customs 
officers have a way of finding out things, 
and I wish you could have seen the contents 
of those trunks! There were bottles and 
bottles, and cigars and tobaccos — every- 
thing but books. That was the first time 
I was sorry my name began with "F," for 
had it been otherwise I should have been 
spared the sight of the discomfort of that 
poor woman. As I was leaving, the sec- 
ond officer said to her, ''Please call your 
husband, madam." Now, how do you 
suppose they knew she had a husband 
with her? 

After the others had left, Mr. and Mrs. 
W., into whose care Ruth had placed 
me, and I went up town, where I bought 
a little souvenir of my first day in England, 
and sent it off to you. 

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That ocean seems, 
somehow, awfully wide with you on the other 
side. 



i6 By the Way 

Chester. 
We purchased in Liverpool an '' Ameri- 
can tourists' stop-over ticket" for 16/6, which, 
being interpreted, signifies sixteen shillings 
and sixpence, or slightly over four dollars, 
over what is known as the ' ' Garden route. ' ' 
We are at ' ' The Blossoms, ' ' an inn over four 
hundred years old. We have been to Ha- 
warden castle, the beautiful home of the late 
Mr. Gladstone. It is in Wales, but five 
miles from here. On our return we visited 
Eaton Hall, the magnificent ' ' place ' ' of the 
Duke of Westminster. Chester is one of the 
oldest towns in England, and some of the old 
Roman wall, built over one thousand years 
ago, is yet standing. The '^Old Rows," 
two-story shops, with some above and some 
below the sidewalk, are quaint. The beauti- 
ful drive is called the ' ' Roodee, ' ' a contrac- 
tion of the French word "rue," and the River 
Dee, on the banks of which the old town is 
situated. Here is a cathedral which pre- 
sents every style of English mediaeval archi- 
tecture, from the early Norman to the last 
perpendicular. 



By the Way 27 

I count this a remarkable day. I have 
seen my first English cathedral, my first Eng- 
lish estate, and have stood, for the first time, 
in the cloisters of an abbey. 



Leamington. 

We arrived here at ' ' ten to five ' ' last even- 
ing. The people of the Manor House were 
expecting us, as we had written from Chester. 
We chose this inn from our guide-book, and 
because it had a garden. I have learned 
that, in England, when in doubt about an 
inn, "lead" with a garden, and you will 
rarely make a mistake. 

This has been a damp journey so far. The 
rain began in Chicago, and has kept pace 
with me all the way, and is still by me. Not- 
withstanding, we strolled, after tea, over the 
little spa and a good five miles of beautiful 
meadow to Guy's Cliff, the handsome coun- 
try-seat of Lord Percy, and back in time for 
eight o'clock table d'hote. The number of 
times these English cousins of ours eat is 
remarkable. They breakfast anywhere from 



2 8 By the Way 

8 to II, lunch from 12 to 4, have tea always 
at 5, and dinner from 8 to 11 at night. 

This morning, at eight, dressed in our- 
short walking-skirts and heavy boots, with 
every warm garment we possess under our 
jackets, we started for Warwick. It was bit- 
terly cold — but — did you ever see a castle? 
I have! To-day! Imagine me standing 
outside the castle wall, gazing up in silent 
awe. This wall is one hundred and twenty- 
five feet high and ten feet thick, built around 
a square of two miles, the gray walls of the 
castle itself forming one side of the square. 
I wonder if other people are moved to tears 
by grandeur in nature or in art ? Do you re- 
call how the tears would come the day 
I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean 
from Mt. Lowe? So to-day, while others 
were ''ohing" and "ahing, " I was dumb 
with joy; and if I have said once, I have said 
a hundred times, ' ' If you were only here to 
enjoy it with me!" 

As we left the embattled gateway we passed 
through a road deeply cut out of the solid 
rock, the walls of which were covered with 



By the Way 29 

vines. A sudden turn brought us abruptly 
into the vast open court, and there burst 
upon our vision a fortress, mighty and mag- 
nificent, and this was Warwick Castle! No 
matter how many embattled castles you see, 
the one seen first will be stamped forever 
upon your memory, and I hope it will be 
beautiful Warwick. We were shown through 
the state apartments, but they were as noth- 
ing compared with my first glimpse of the 
massive fortress of the feudal barons of War- 
wick — the old king-makers. After dinner 
we drove to Kenilworth and viewed the 
stately ruins by moonlight. 

Stratpord-on-avon. 
The sun shone to-day, and it was a wel- 
come sight. We came here to rest over the 
Sabbath. We have wandered over the sim- 
ple old town to all the haunts of the poet. 
We met Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, 
Italians — all doing him honor. As we 
walked ' ' Across the field to Ann" in the twi- 
light, I recalled Dr. Richard Burton's beauti- 
fulfpoem of that title. 



30 By the Way 

I find that one can get her Hnen washed 
quickly, cheaply, and well in all parts of 
England. You give your soiled clothes, 
with a thru'pence, to your maid at night, and 
you will find them at your door, along with 
your shoes, in the morning — shoes and all 
having been thoroughly washed. 



Oxford. 
Thackeray was certainly right when he 
said of Oxford, "It is a delight to enter, but 
despair to leave." Should you ask me to 
tell you candidly how long one should remain 
in Oxford in order to see it perfectly, I should 
reply, "A lifetime." It is charming. Of 
course the college buildings, with their quads 
and cloisters, the churches, the Sheldonian 
theater, and Bodleian library, are all teeming 
with historic interest, but it is the beauty of 
the outdoor part of Oxford — of all England, 
in fact — that most appeals to me. Well 
may this be called the "garden route," for all 
nature is alive with flowers and foliage, with 
green of all shades, and odors sweeter than 



By the Way 31 

honey. Everything here is freely accessible 
to the visitor. No wonder the English 
women are good walkers. One cannot see 
the beauties of these glorious gardens, both 
public and private, unless one walks miles, 
as I have this day. 



White Hart Inn, 
Windsor. 

I have been repaid a thousand-fold for 
that awful ocean voyage. The massive walls 
of Windsor Castle are just outside my window, 
and as I write, I count ten guards abreast 
upon them. It is the Queen's birthday, 
"God bless her!" 

I was up with the lark and entered the 
embattled gateway as soon as it was open 
to visitors. The terraces, the grand par- 
terre, the royal stables, St. George's Chapel, 
where the royal marriages are celebrated, the 
State Apartments, the Round Tower, and 
Albert Memorial Chapel — all, all are be- 
yond my power of description. It was with 
difficulty that I tore myself away, bade 



32 By the Way 

good by to Mr. and Mrs. W., caught the 
train for Paddington Station, reached London 
in time to take a cab to Guilford Street, 
where I found your blessed letters; back 
to Charing Cross Station, paid thirty-eight 
shillings for my ''booking," twelve for extra 
luggage, two for storage (I haven't seen my 
trunks since I left Liverpool), and away I 
went to Folkestone by the sea, where I was 
to meet Mrs. C. and go on to Paris. 

While crossing the Channel, which, as 
usual, was very rough, Mrs. C. gave me a 
"sure cure" for mal de mer. She took hers 
— I held mine in my hand — and soon she 
was helped below. I came nearer succumb- 
ing than ever I did on the ocean voyage. I 
had my English gold changed into French 
silver, I have barely learned shillings and 
pence, and now francs and centimes must 
be mastered. The French money is easier 
to learn, however, as it is a decimal system, 
similar to our own. 

On our arrival at Boulogne I actually 
assisted a fellow-traveler in ordering his 
dinner in French. On the train to Paris 



f^M 





34 By the Way 

Mrs. C. and I had a compartment to our- 
selves. When one has a compartment alone 
in these foreign trains, one can lie' at full 
length and rest. We reached Paris too late 
to go through the Duane (customs), but our 
hand luggage had been examined at Bou- 
logne-sur-Mer, so we went at once to the 
Hotel Britannique on Rue Victoria. I 
climbed to the fifth floor, too tired to mind 
the stairs, bewildered at the day's doings. 

Now, wouldn't you call this a glorious 
day — Windsor Castle, London, and Paris- 
all for the first time, and all within the space 
of twenty-four hours ? 



By the Way 



3S 




30 Rue de la Bienfaisance, 

Paris. 

MUST tell you what a joy you 
are! You have contented your- 
self with the daily post-card and 
the bi-weekly billet doux, which 
have been plus doux que long, I 
fear, but without the usual weekly 
budget; and yet here you are 
willing to forego it for anothei; 
week that I may help Mary. This will go 
to you first, however, and will be but a 
little later reaching her. 

We have been going so fast that the mental 
has refused to perform its functions when 
the physical was so fatigued. I think it wise 
to rest a bit and endeavor to digest the 
knowledge gained in travel before writing of 
it. As I look back over what I have seen in 
the last few weeks, both in art and nature, 
I realize the truth of a little thing I once 
read, taken from a letter by a well-known 
writer of short stories to Mr. William Dean 
Howells. She said that we must have some 
atmosphere, some distance, between ourselves 



3^ By the Way 

and our theme in order to get perspective, 
whether one be painter or writer. So I feel 
sure this budget will lose nothing by the 
waiting before I tell you what I have picked 
up by the way in La Belle Paris. 

If you can come but once, Mary dear, do 
not come in July or August, the tourist 
season. Paris is a dream of beauty at all 
seasons, but the charm of any city is obscured 
when crowded as Paris is during those 
months. Come in May. Do you not 
remember what Victor Hugo said in "Le 
Proscrit?" 

"Le mois de mai sans la France, 
Ce n'est pas le mois de mai." 

One of the first things we did on our ar- 
rival in Paris was to register at the office of 
the New York Herald, on the Avenue de 
1' Opera. Our American friends could then 
find us. We did another wise thing in 
choosing from among our numerous addresses 
a pension downtown. It saved us time, 
strength, and money. It is not one of those 
pensions Longfellow used to tell about, 
which had inscribed on the front of it, "Ici 



By the Way 37 

on donne a boire et a manger ; on loge a pied 
et a cheval"; literally, "Here we give to 
drink and eat; we lodge on foot and on 
horseback." Our pension only "give to eat 
and lodge on foot." There is more prose 
than poetry about the non-drinking part, for 
seldom can one get a good cup of coffee 
anywhere, I find. The chocolate and tea are 
perfect, however, and the little crescent- 
shaped roll and the fresh, unsalted butter 
are delicious. 

We are on the Rue de la Bienfaisance, 
just off the Boulevard Haussmann, not far 
from the beautiful little Eglise Saint Augustin, 
where most of the w^eddings of the Paris 
"four hundred" are celebrated, and a few 
steps from the Gare Saint Lazare, where 
we take our bus. Madame Dedebat, our 
hostess, is most charming, and she sets the 
best table we have found. We call each 
morning for our delightful English friends. 
They live in the Rue des Pyramides, near 
where it runs into the Rue de Rivoli, where 
stands the beautiful bronze statue of Jeanne 
d'Arc. 



38 By the Way 

The Louvre Palais, which contains the 
Musee, and the Tuileries are just across the 
street, with the Place de la Concorde a little 
farther up; the Grand Opera is but a few 
squares away, with the American Express 
ofhce near it, and the Church of the Made- 
line hard by. 

The Place de la Concorde is an immense 
square with mammoth pieces of sculpture at 
each corner, representing the provinces taken 
from the Germans. One of these was re- 
captured by the Germans, but instead of 
marring the beautiful "place" by tearing 
down the statue, it is draped with crepe and 
wreaths of flowers. In the center of the 
square is the obelisk, with fountains playing 
about it. 

The roads are as white as snow, both 
through and around the Place. It is framed 
in green by the Tuileries, the Champs Ely- 
sees, and the banks of the Seine. There is a 
view one gets right here which cannot, per- 
haps, be excelled in all the world. If you 
stand at the court of the Louvre, in the open 
space where the Arc de Carrousel meets the 



By the Way 39 

Louvre Palais, and look through the arch, the 
eye catches at once the green of the Tuiler- 
ies garden and its trees, the dazzling bright- 
ness of its marbles, the sparkling of its foun- 
tains, the obelisk, and far on through the 
Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, 
which makes a fitting finish for this most 
glorious vista. 

I am at loss to tell you just what to do with 
only a week in this little world, but let noth- 
ing deter you from coming. I would rather 
have come for one day than never to have 
seen it at all. With a month on your hands, 
and an inclination in your heart, you can do 
wonders in this the most fascinating city on 
the globe. Were one to be here but a short 
time, a drive over the city should occupy the 
first day. Parties are sent out every day, 
with guides who know the best routes, and 
it is iiot a bad idea to join one of them. Do 
not, however, go with a party to see interiors 
or the works of art, for one is so hurried that 
one scarcely knows what has been seen. 

As an illustration: Two young girls 
stopping at our pension joined one of these 



40 By the Way 

parties going to Versailles the same day that 
Ruth and I went. We had seats on top of 
the steam tram which leaves every hour from 
the foot of the Place de la Concorde bridge. 
We spent the entire day there, and came away 
after dark feeling that we had had the merest 
peep at the parks and gardens, vast with 
miles of marble terraces, miles of lime-tree 
bowers, fountains of gold, of silver, and of 
bronze, green of all shades, flowers of all 
colors, staircases of onyx, paintings, sculp- 
tures and relics of untold value. We walked 
miles and had been driven tens of miles 
through the parks and gardens of the Grand 
and Petit Trianon. We had stood by the most 
stupendous series of fountains the world has 
ever known. And we crawled home weary, 
but happy at heart for all this beauty, to find 
that our poor little friends had been there but 
two hours — that they had galloped from 
place to place, catching but little if anything 
of the foreign names pronounced so differ- 
ently from the way we are taught. Versailles 
is one of the places where there are official 
guides, and it pays to hire one by the hour. 



By the Way 41 



Of the museums, see the Luxembourg first 
because while the gardens are beautiful, they 
are not so well kept nor to be compared with 
those of the Louvre or Versailles. The 
works of art are placed in the Luxembourg 
gallery during the lifetime of an artist, if his 
works merit that honor; if his fame lives for 
ten years after his death, they are transferred 
to the Louvre. Hence it is in the Luxem- 
bourg one will find the best works of living 
artists. There hangs the painting by Maria 
Bashkirtseff. It was admitted to the salon 
in 1884, and hung in the Luxembourg in 
1886, and still remains there. 

The Louvre Musee is a vast collection 
of classified art, and occupies the palace 
of that name, any room of which will repay 
one. 

Just wander about alone until some work 
of art compels you to stop before it ; then look 
at your Baedeker and see if it is something 
noted. It tickles one's vanity to find one has 
selected a masterpiece without having it 
pointed out. Speaking of guide-books, 
Baedeker is by far the best, and rarely fails 



42 



By the Way 



one excepting in galleries where it is impossi- 
ble to keep an accurate list of the works of 
art on account of their being moved from 
room to room, or of their being loaned to 
some world's exposition. 




JEWEL ROOM, THE LOUVRE 



In the Louvre are many of the master- 
pieces, pictures which every boy or girl knows, 
as Murillo's Immaculate Conception. Other 
well-known masterpieces of Titian, Raphael, 
Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Rubens and Fra An- 
gelico make one agree with Marie Corelli, 
that the old masters took their secret of colors' 
to the grave with them. I offended my Eng- 



By the Way 43 

lish friends by admitting that I did not like 
Dickens, and now I'm afraid I'll shock my 
Holland friends by not liking Rubens ; but his 
best works are still in Holland, and I have not 
seen them. One should get catalogues of 
both the Louvre and Luxembourg galleries. 
They are worth the small fortune they cost. 

If you can make time, see Cluny, Guimet, 
the Musee des Religions, the Musee Gustave 
Moreau, the Musee Cernuski, almost wholly 
Oriental, and — well, all Paris. 

The Louvre shop is across the street from 
the Louvre Musee, and it, together with the 
Bon Marche and Printemps, form a trio of 
wonders in the commercial world of Paris 
which it is well not to miss seeing, but buy 
your rare and dainty things at the little shops 
dealing exclusively in one article. 

The best manner to see the Bois de Bou- 
logne, for one whose time is limited, is to take 
a boat on the Seine at the Pont Royal, 
stopping at St. Cloud (San Clu) and Sevres, 
and, after an hour of exquisite rest amid the 
dreamland on either side, disembark at Su- 
resnes (Sur-ren), cross the bridge, and walk 



44 



By the Way 



back to Paris through the forest. We took 
the earhest morning boat. It chanced to be 
the day of the Bataille des fieurs (Battle of 
flowers). Some time was spent viewing this 




STAIRCASE, GRAND OPERA 

beautiful scene; we stopped frequently at 
little cafes for tea or rest, and six o'clock 
found us at the Arc de Triomphe hailing a 
cab to take us home. It was fatiguing, but 
in no other way could we have seen so well 



By the Way 45 

the splendid woods nor the ghmpses of 
family life among the hon bourgeois. 

The day you go to the Bon Marche walk 
down to Notre Dame, cross the Pont d'Ar- 
cole, and that brings you right into the gar- 
dens of the Hotel de Ville, which is beyond 
all doubt the most magnificent palace of 
justice in the world. Its decorations rival 
those of the Louvre. The entrance, the gal- 
leries, the ball-room, and the banquet-hall 
are splendid beyond description. The 
ceiling decorations are all by noted artists 
and represent some type of Plenty, Music, 
or Love. It is marvelous, the art these 
French have put into their architecture. 

The crowning delight, that of a visit to the 
tomb of Napoleon, awaits your week's end. 
The tomb is in the crypt under the dome des 
Invalides, a home for old soldiers, and is 
reached by walking through the gardens and 
long, cloister-like passages of the Invalides. 
As I entered my eyes fell on an immense 
altar, through the amber windows of which 
a flood of golden light poured on a colossal 
cross, lighting the face of the bronze figure of 



46 By the Way 

Christ nailed to it, making a most dramatic 
picture. This figure was cast from one of 
Napoleon's cannons. The tomb itself is a 
large marble basin, over the edge of which 
you look down onto the sarcophagus cut out 
of a huge block of reddish brown granite. It 
stands on a mosaic pavement, in the form of 
a laurel wreath, and around the walls are 
twelve colossal statues representing the 
twelve victories. 



30 Rue de la Bienfaisance, 

Paris . 

'T wish I had been born either rich or a 
hod-carrier!" The very idea of a woman of 
my parts counting centimes! Instead of 
telling my friends how to come on the least 
money, I'd rather say, go hide somewhere 
until you have millions to buy the dainty 
confections with which Paris abounds. It 
gives me heart-aches to look and smile and 
reach for — then stop and sigh and count the 
aforesaid centimes. From this you have, 
perhaps, surmised that we have been going 



By the Way 47 

over the pros and cons of shopping — princi- 
pally the cons. 

How foolish of me to tell any one not to 
come to dear, mad, wild, glorious Paris! 
Why, I'd come, if only to remain a day, and 
have nothing to eat for a year thereafter. 

. Last night when I wrote I was "way back 
at the end of the procession," but this morn- 
ing I am "right up behind the band." And 
the reason ? Never ask a woman sojourn- 
ing on foreign shores for a motij. There is 
but one, that, far from those she loves, makes 
or mars the pleasure of being — brings the 
sunshine or the cloud— regulates the pulse- 
beats of her very existence — and that is — A 

LETTER ! 

I have not told you. For some days I 
have had no word, hence my lowly position 
of yesterday. But on this bright, beautiful 
morning, I found on my breakfast-tray a 
packet of many-stamped, much-crossed, and 
often-forwarded letters. And now, although 
it is raining in torrents, and the coffee is — not 
coffee — I can see only golden words, and 



48 By the Way 

those through rose-tinted glasses. "Ah, 
what care I how bad the weather?" — lam 
so happy that I have already forgiven those 
who have not been constant, or who failed 
"to remember." 

Alice is here, the guest of friends at their 
country house at Fontainebleau. The day 
she was our hostess she met us at the station, 
and we were driven through a long lane of 
lime-trees to the chateau of Fontainebleau. 

No other palace has aroused so keen an 
interest as has the interior of this noble old 
mediaeval fortress. In this palace are tapes- 
tries of rare worth and weave, jardinieres in 
cloisonne, bas-reliefs in jasper, masterpieces 
of marquetry, and priceless bric-a-brac, 
found nowhere else in such lavish profusion. 

Ahce's hostess sent her servants with a 
dainty luncheon, which they served for us on 
the marble steps leading from I'Etang des 
Carpes to the water's edge. The afternoon 
and early hours of the evening w^ere spent in 
driving through the forest. 

The forest of Fontainebleau embraces over 



By the Way 49 

fifty square miles, and its magnificent timber 
and picturesque splendor is not surpassed in 
all France. 



Adelaide is not coming to Paris at present. 
She is still studying in Vienna, and winning 




FONTAINEBLEAU 



hearts and laurels by the score. She will 
leave soon for the land of the midnight sun, 
and I shall expect some glowing accounts of 
that northland. 

We were guests at the Ambassador's re- 
ception yesterday. The house, just off the 
Champs Elysees, is furnished with elegance 
and taste. General and Mrs. Porter received 
alone. She was gowned in a black and 
white foulard, into which lace was set, out- 



50 By the Way 

lined with narrow black velvet ribbon. The 
gowns worn by both the French and Ameri- 
can women were, many of them, gorgeous, all 
of them graceful and fetching, and most of 
them airy creations of lace. Lace is the 
prominent factor in gowns here. 

Refreshments were served from a buffet 
table set in one of the drawing-rooms, and 
gentlemen, instead of ladies, assisted the 
hostess about the rooms. 



Paris. 

You are a wise woman in your generation, 
Olive dear, for upon what you read before 
going, depends largely what you will com- 
prehensively absorb during a stay in any 
foreign country. 

The Women's Rest Tour Association of 
Boston issues a httle book — A Summer in 
England — in which is found, besides some 
excellent advice, an exhaustive bibliography. 
In addition to those you mention as having 
read, I would suggest Mr. Henry James's 
"Little Tour in France." One should not 



By the Way 51 



travel in rural France without knov^dng it. 
F. Berkeley Smith's "The Real Latin 
Quarter" has much of the naive charm that 
characterizes his father's writings, and gives 
one an insight to that fascinating part of 
Paris rarely found in books. 

Few books have been so helpful to me as 
Esther Singleton's "Turrets, Towers, and 
Temples" and her "Great Pictures Described 
by Great Writers." The names tell you 
what a wealth of information they must con- 
tain — information which ever}' traveler 
should possess. You must not think of see- 
ing Germany without knowing ]\Ir. Howell's 
"Their Silver Wedding Journey," and "One 
Year Abroad," by the author of that de- 
lightful story, "One Summer." 

Brander Matthew's clever "Americanisms 
and Briticisms" abounds in funny but valua- 
ble information. Katherine DeForest's 
"Paris as It Is" tells of many out-of-the- 
common places, and Kate Douglas Wlggins's 
English, Scotch, and Irish "Experiences," 
and "Cathedral Courtship," present the 
fascination of fiction blended with reality. 



5^ By the Way 

For out-of-the-way parts of the world I 
can recommend Grace Greenlee's "As We 
were Journeying." I have met the young 
author, and find that the information con- 
tained in her book is authentic. 

Buy a Baedeker for each country, and 
Hutton's "Literary Landmarks" for each 
city. Study them, eat with them, sleep with 
them, walk, talk, pray with and swear by 
them. 

You will be glad to know that the Book- 
lover's Library has crossed the water. One 
may now get books in New York, read them 
on shipboard, and have them exchanged at 
her hotel in London or Paris without any 
further trouble than the writing of a post- 
card. 



I am reminded every day that the world 
is small; not by the dear old world itself, for 
it seems mighty big to-night, as the distance 
between me and the united "colonies" comes 
to mental view; it is rather the droll and 
this-is-original-with-me expression which 



By the Way ^3 

accompanies the saying that impresses me 
with smallness. 

But if the world seems smah, America does 
not. 'Everywhere I go I have cause to real- 
ize the greatness of my native land. 

The artists' quarter is agog over the great 
success of the American artists. Chief 
among these is Pauline Palmer. Last night, 
at a musical, a young English barytone sang 
a number of Carrie Jacobs-Bonds' beautiful 
songs, much to the delight of the audience; 
and you can imagine my pleasure when I 
found Emma Lee Walton's sweet little story, 
''Marget," among the treasured clippings of 
my talented French master, M. Emile. One 
might think a section of Chicago transplanted 
in Paris. 



Paris. 
Will you please send the letter to dear 
Louise, first, this week ? She and Susan 
have been the most faithful of all my friends, 
and a foreign post rarely leaves America 
without some word from them to me. Even 



54 By the Way 

wee Hazelton has sent "his mark." Both 
Louise and Susan have asked who Ruth is. 

Ruth is my friend, in the fullest meaning 
of the word. She is a Quakeress, as you will 
see by the thee and thou. She is the loveliest 
and most considerate of traveling compan- 
ions, and — and — well, if I should take the 
dictionary and shake out all the adjectives, 
and use them to tell how beautiful she is, 
within as well as without, they would not do 
her justice. So, then, I send instead a char- 
acteristic letter received from her while she 
was a guest at Eastnor castle. Besides 
giving you an idea of Ruth, I feel sure you 
will be interested in reading of life in a castle, 
by one who has so recently experienced it. 



The Letter. 

Eastnoe Castle, 

Ledberry, England, 

June I. 

Beloved: — But ten short days have gone 
since I bade thee farewell as we parted com- 
pany in Liverpool, thee bent upon reaching 



By the Way ^^ 

the Continent, and I to make a circuitous 
route to this wonderland of Eastnor Castle, 
the royal home of that royal lady, Isabel 
Somerset. I wonder if her ladyship can have 
any idea what a ghmpse into "this life apart" 
can mean to ordinary, every-day mortals! 
Had I possessed my wits I would not have 
accepted thy refusal to halt in thy mad rush, 
first coming here with me, after which we 
could have journeyed together to the city of 
the Seine. 

Thee bade me tell thee how the nobles hve. 
Thee has set me a difficult task. Thee knows 
this is the second time I have been admitted 
to these palace walls. When I came first, 
two years ago, utterly destitute of the knowl- 
edge necessary to a rightful appreciation of 
this titled heritage, I fear I resembled an un- 
trained coh let loose within a garden of 
flowers, in ignorance and fright ruthlessly 
treading upon, or bhndly passing by, that 
which to a sage would be sacredly signifi- 
cant. Here is set befc»re us the history of 
Anglo-Saxon civihzalion — every foot of 
ground aids in spelling out some distinctive 



^6 By the Way 

step in the evolution of the race. To one 
who looks with vision veiled there may appear 
little but "stuff and nonsense" in the innu- 
merable customs and ceremonies, the old 
landmarks, the tomes of relics which occupy 
every niche and corner of park and palace. 
But to the knowing ones all these become 
possessed with living tongues, speaking in 
fiery eloquence the language of ages far agone. 
I think thy estimate of me since the day 
we met must be that I am a most thoroughly 
democratic American; especially convinced 
must thee be of this fact since our close 
association during those trying days on ship- 
board. Nevertheless, I sometimes wish there 
were inherent among us as a people a little 
more of reverence, both for persons and 
things. I believe the reflex influence of such 
sentiment upon the American character 
would be to modify what may be termed 
national self-conceit, and which we are too 
prone to flaunt abroad with a degree of vain- 
glory that is scarcely consistent with mod- 
esty and good manners. It were better to 
teach our youth the historical significance of 



By the Way 57 

these old estates, the long-ago achievements 
that won for certain families distinguished 
titles that are perpetuated in what constitutes 
the nobility of the present day, than to pur- 
sue our present inconsistent course of utterly 
ignoring them. 

A certain morbid curiosity now character- 
izes many American tourists, to satisfy which 
they not infrequently make themselves liable 
to the criticism that we are snobbish and 
superficial, lacking in delicacy and culture. 
I used to be very sensitive myself relative to 
this seemingly unkind rating of us by our 
Enghsh cousins, but several trips abroad have 
led me to see the situation from the other side, 
and I can but wish that there were less cause 
for it. 

I shall always count it one of those rare 
privileges which seldom come to any mortal 
twice in a lifetime to have been domiciled for 
this week in beautiful Eastnor. June in 
England is endowed with even more loveli- 
ness than for us at home. Nature has 
donned her robes of bloom and perfume. 
The leaves are of that glossy green which 



58 By the Way 

mirrors the faces of cowslip and daisy. The 
hedges have not yet been chpped, and the 
wild rose and honeysuckle have merry frolic 
in their scramble for a brier or bush to cling to. 
With such rare beauty pervading dell and 
dale, and with my democratic principles in 
prime condition, I had no thought before 
coming that this visit would be much of an 
incident in what has already been, as thee 
knows, rather an eventful life. I may not 
have told thee that, when I was here before. 
Lady Henry was not living in state. Indeed, 
she spent very little time at this castle, choos- 
ing rather to live more quietly in the manor 
at Reigate, in Surrey. But since then her 
only son has reached his majority, and has 
assumed charge of a good share of his 
gracious mother's affairs. He has married 
the beautiful Lady Catherine, and as this 
castle is the official residence of the family, 
the events I have just mentioned have caused 
everything hereabouts to blossom out in 
grand splendor. Lady Henry now resides 
here in state. Certain apartments have been 
assigned to the son and his family (a little 



By the Way 59 

grandson arrived a few months ago to bless 
the hearts and perpetuate the name of the 
house) and many of the two hundred cham- 
bers of the castle are frequently put at the 
disposal of her ladyship's guests. So thee 
can understand that this visit is vastly more 
meaningful than was the former one. 

Oh, the splendor of these castle walls! 
The magnificence and extent of the interior! 
The punctilious attention of this army of 
servants! The rambles through these miles 
of parks! The drives over the vast estate! 
I must confess that at first it failed to im- 
press me as deeply significant of a phase of 
life I have never known much about, but 
after the first day or two are now past I find 
myself beginning to think that these things 
are, after all, quite to my liking. This morn- 
ing I found myself unconsciously waiting for 
the maid to enter and remove the drapery 
from the window; to dust and arrange my 
clothing, and even offer to put it on ; to brush 
my hair, and in her gentle voice ask whether 
I wished breakfast served in my room. I 
may say that any one invited here to visit is 



6o By the Way 

supposed to belong to the class who would 
bring their servants with them, but with 
Americans it is different, and a maid is as- 
signed us from those of the household staff. 
How natural to have that important func- 
tionary, the head-housekeeper, inquire with 
an air of high dignity, at what hour I wish to 
drive, and whether I will dine at home all 
day. 

The wealth of flowers, freshly cut each 
morning, are lovely, as they nod from the 
tables in the boudoirs and the niches in the 
great library. And the works of art that 
adorn the corridors and the great staircase, 
the dining and drawing rooms, are fascinating 
in the extreme. How much pleasanter to 
study Rubens, Watts, Ghirlandajo, Veron- 
ese, and a host of other great painters in this 
castle-home than in a crowded public gallery, 
where one's legs and neck get so tired. What- 
ever we as a nation may think of titles and 
nobility in general, I know at least one citi- 
zen of the Republic who deems the life here 
''perfectly lovely." Last night, shut in 
by the silken draperies of my downy couch, I 



By the Way 6i 

dropped asleep half-wondering what my 
chances might have been had my father been 
able to settle a dower upon me of a million 
or two. 

Yesterday I ventured to say to the mis- 
tress of all this grandeur, "Lady Henry, you 
are indeed a queen"; whereupon her lady- 
ship gave me a reply that holds the keynote 
to her noble life, "My dear, I like the idea 
of fellowship better," she said. Ah, yes, I 
could well believe it, else what could induce 
her to deliberately forsake the life of quiet- 
ness and refinement for that of a moral re- 
former? It would have been most natural 
for her to have passed a life of royal ease, for 
her cup of earthly comfort was full to the 
brim. The daughter of seven earls, with a 
pedigree seven hundred years long, and 
estates involving, besides this castle, a 
splendid old manor at Reigate, a city home 
in London, another in Paris, a villa in Switz- 
erland, and a tenantry of one hundred and 
twenty thousand souls. 

Her house has always stood in high favor 
with the reigning sovereigns, and many im- 



62 By the Way 

portant political achievements have shed 
glory on the ancient name of Somers. 
Socially no^one outside the royal family itself 
has ever shone with fairer fame in the high- 
est coteries of London than she who is now a 
familiar figure among the farmers of the 
Malvern Hills or the miners of Wales. 

'Twere well for thee and the length of this 
already unreasonably long letter that a butler 
has just announced, "Her Ladyship is in the 
Grand Library, and awaits your presence at 
afternoon tea," or I fear the spell that was 
upon me to write might have held me until 
the shadows fall, which, by the by, at this 
time of the year in England do not fall till 
between nine and ten in the evening. But 
I dare not tarry a moment longer. 

No. 12 BiSHOPGATE PlACE, 

London. 
Beloved Friend:— -As thee will see, I never 
got back to my letter after leaving it last week 
to take tea with her ladyship. The remain- 
ing days were so fully planned for that we 
were occupied almost every hour. 



By the Way 6^ 

I left the castle yesterday morning in a 
maze of bewildered impressions. How queer 
to again grab my own bag and umbrella and 
join the seething crowds. How uncouth and 
rude it seems after having been hid away with 
beauty and culture for eight days. But Lady 
Henry's reply rings in my ears, "I like the 
idea of fellowship better," and the fact that 
when I left she was out somewhere near Lon- 
don lost in work among the masses, helps re- 
store me to my senses. Life is more real 
than ever before. Last night as I came from 
St. Paul's here to my lodgings, it seerged 
easier to discern God's image in even the 
least attractive of those I encountered upon 
the highway than it used to be. My demo- 
cratic principles have suffered no injury 
whatever. They have only been burnished 
and made to shine with new luster. 

I am stopping at the old Friends' Meeting 
House. It is very quaint, and to me every- 
thing about it is of intense interest. I will 
join thee in Paris Thursday. 

Faithfully thine, 

Ruth. 



64 By the Way 

88 GuiLPORD Street, 
London, June 25. 

So many things crowd to the place where 
the gray matter should be that I gasp for 
breath. I wonder if every woman who comes 
over here is possessed with the wild desire to 
write letters. I go to see places now that I 
may tell you about them, and am uneasy 
until I reach my little sky-parlor in order to 
begin the telling. 

Can I ever make you understand how 
much, how very much, I appreciate all the 
delights you are making it possible for me to 
enjoy ? Were I to be stricken blind and 
deaf, and then live a thousand years, I have 
enough of beauty of color, of sound, and of 
fragrance to enable me to live happily through 
it all. 

And yet, I am going to say, "I told you 
so." You never did so unwise a thing as to 
induce me to bring those trunks. We have 
discarded them and have each purchased 
an English "hold-all" and a dress basket. 
This last we send to the place where we 
are to be at the week's end, and there we 



By the Way 65 

are laundered, and away it goes to our next 
resting-place. 

There is a system of "carted luggage" here 
by which one may send any large piece of 
luggage that can be locked (it will not be 
taken otherwise) from one's door and find it 
in one's room at the hotel or lodgings in the 
next city. The cost is nominal. Unless one 
comes to visit or for social duties, only the 
bare necessities should be taken. Other 
articles are an extra bother and expense. We 
have learned, too, to write ahead, and in time 
for a reply, before venturing to hotels or 
lodgings. Women unaccompanied by men 
do not receive the best attention in Europe 
unless '^expected." 

A strange coincidence occurred which I tell 
you to show that I am not superstitious. My 
room at my home hotel was numbered 
thirteen, the stateroom assigned me on the 
ship was numbered thirteen, and my first ad- 
dress in London was numbered thirteen, yet 
I am alive and well, and almost happy. 



(>(> By the Way 

House-Boat Reve d'Or, 

Bourne End, England, 

July 2. 

I shall not soon forget those dear friends 
who have been faithful and have written me 
every little w^hile. No one knows, save those 
who have experienced it, what a letter means 
to one traveling in a strange country. 

I am having the desire of my life. Every 
one is lovely to me. I am seeing picturesque 
England, literary England, and historical 
England. I am having an ideally perfect 
time amid elegance and luxury, yet you can 
little realize the courage it takes not to throw 
the whole thing up and go home. I feel as 
though I'd like to gallop — run is too tame — 
right off to the docks and take the first thing 
that crosses that big ocean. Never fear, 
though, I'm going to brave it out, and I'll be 
a better and a wiser woman in consequence 
of it. 

London, July 4. 

Hurrah for the red, white, and blue ! The 

dear maid brought me eleven letters, each 



68 By the Way 

with a little flag on it, and each intended to 
reach me on this day. 

Ruth and I took two young American girls 
with us to the Ambassador's reception this 
afternoon at four. Mr. and Mrs. Hay live 
at Carlton House Terrace, and received most 
graciously. Mrs. Hay is a tall, fine-looking 
woman, and was simply gowned in a blue 
foulard. Miss Hay was in white. The 
gardens and white marble terrace leading to 
them were draped in our nation's colors, and 
red carpets were laid to avoid the dampness. 

There is a spirit of patriotism in the breast 
of social leaders which perhaps is seldom 
equaled by those in the humbler walks of life. 
The firing of gunpowder in its various forms, 
the drinking of all sorts and conditions of 
drinks, the noise of the numerous and sense- 
less yells on our nation's natal day, does not 
necessarily stamp the doer with boundless 
national love. 

When one is far from one's native land the 
feehng of love for that home-land is of too 
deep and sacred a nature to admit of jocular 
demonstrations. I saw society to-day with 



By the Way 69 

statesmen and men of letters and foreign 
representatives at the Ambassador's recep- 
tion, and the heart swelled with patriotic 
emotion, and many eyes were moist with tears 
as some one unfurled the Stars and Stripes, 
while the band played the Star-Spangled 
Banner. All this was done without sound 
of any sort, save the sweet strains of the 
music, or the deeper drawing of the breath, 
and yet the men of other nations uncovered 
their heads in respectful acknowledgment of 
the fact that they stood before the represen- 
tatives of the truest and most patriotic coun- 
try on earth. 




yo By the Way 

London, July 20. 
;AURENCE HUTTON says: 
"London has no associations so 
interesting as those connected 
with its Hterary men." I do 
not entirely agree with him, but 
rather think, as Katherine De- 
Forest remarks of Brittany, 
"It is one of the few places that never 
seem to lose their artistic seduction." 

Not half has been told of dear, delightful, 
dirty, dreary London. I should be the last 
person to call her dreary, for she put on her 
best behavior for me, and the sun shone nearly 
every day those first weeks. It was June: 

"And what is so rare as a day in June ?" 

You will remember that the American states- 
man-poet wrote the poem containing this 
line in London. 

The first and last place to visit in London 
is Westminster Abbey. The church is in 
the form of a Latin cross, and the poets' cor- 
ner is in the south transept, a wing off the 
organ-room. When you enter it, you seem 




, a-"- .'jL'i. ,* - 7 -<**-■» *^ ' q i 




WESTMINSTER ABBEY 



72 By the Way 

to be in a chapel with pews and an akar Hke 
any place of worship, but it appears to grow 
larger as one continues to gaze. The wall 
and every available space are filled with 
marble busts or bas-reliefs. The stone 
placed in memory of Mr. Gladstone is in the 
floor of this poets' corner, and is a simple 
white marble tablet engraved: 

Wm. Gladstone, 
1898. 

Involuntarily I stepped back and stood 
with bowed head, then passed around 
through another aisle. It is worthy of note 
that Longfellow is the only American whose 
bust adorns this corner. There is a service 
of song here every afternoon at four, and the 
harmony of those unusually sweet voices is 
yet ringing in my ears. 

The Houses of Parliament are across the 
street from the Abbey. They contain over 
a thousand apartments, more than a hun- 
dred staircases, and a dozen courts. The 
art in these buildings rivals anything of the 
kind in the world. The paintings, sculp- 



By the Way 73 

tures, and the mosaic pavements are beauti- 
ful beyond description. They are only open 
to the public on Saturdays, from ten to four. 
One should take a boat from the Tower 
bridge to get the view of these buildings from 
the river, and sail away down past the em- 
bankment, where are many of the finest 
hotels. 

There are some beautiful water trips 
around London. One, particularly pleasant, 
is from London bridge to Kew. If you have 
time, stop at Chelsea and see the home of 
Carlyle, which is now fitted up as a memo- 
rial ap.d open to visitors, afterwards going 
on to Kew. Disembark here and take a 
chars-a-bancs, or the top of an omnibus, to 
Hampton Court, and walk through the 
grounds. 

To me one of the greatest delights of Lon- 
don is Hyde Park. I cannot understand 
why one hears so much about Paris and so 
little of London. Hyde Park is to London 
what the Tuileries are to Paris, and the 
marble arch at the Victoria Street entrance, 
erected by George the Fourth, is as beautiful 



74 By the Way 

as the Arc de Triomphe, while the massive 
archway and iron gates at the Piccadilly end 
are finer than anything of the kind I saw in 
Paris. One gets the best idea of Hyde Park 
by taking a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus — and, 
by the by, do you know what Piccadilly 
Circus is ? Well, it is only a street, or rather 
a widening of the place where Regent Street 
ends and where Piccadilly turns west. 
Piccadilly itself is a prominent street, but only 
about half a mile in length, beginning at 
Haymarket and ending at Hyde Park. 

To go back to Hyde Park — I repeat, take 
a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus, ride to Kensing- 
ton Gore, and walk back through Kensing- 
ton Gardens, past the Albert Memorial and 
the marble statue of the Queen, done by her 
daughter, Princess Louise. One is obhged 
to walk, as carriages are not allowed in Ken- 
sington Gardens, and there is no other way 
by which to see the beauty of the rare old 
trees, the fountains, the lakes and bridges 
and the glorious array of blossoms. Try to 
get down to Rotten Row in Hyde Park by 
four, for at that time the "drive" begins, and 



76 By the Way 

one may see London's lords and ladies at 
their best. 

Another delightful day may be spent in 
St. James Park. Aim to arrive there for the 
"guard mount," at nine each morning, and if 
you go on a Wednesday, and the King and 
Queen happen not to be in town, you may 
be shown through the palace. 

Make a day of the Crystal Palace at Cyden- 
ham Hill. If one cannot take the conti- 
nental trip, a very good idea of the works of 
art of Switzerland, Germany, France, and 
Italy may be obtained in this ''miniature 
world," as the Crystal Palace is sometimes 
called. 

One should go to the theaters, and go 
some time when they do not "book stalls." 
This experience is apt to test your menti- 
culture. The Haymarket theater, for in- 
stance, does not book seats on Saturday 
afternoons and the highest priced seat is but 
four shillings. It seemed strange that Ruth 
insisted on our lunching so early the Satur- 
day we were to attend, but I thought per- 
haps the performance began at twelve, like 



By the Way 77 

the Wagnerian cycles at Covent Garden. 
When I saw the pretty, well-behaved young 
women sitting there in line on camp-stools, 
it struck me as very funny. I lost my "place" 
time after time stepping out to gaze at them. 
There were few men present, and the low 
voices of the women never rose high or shrill 
when arguing about their right to a place. 
But best and most fascinating of all is the 
National Gallery, and after that the British 
Museum. I like the English school of art. 
Landseer, Turner, Reynolds, Hogarth, and 
Gainsborough are a decided relief from the 
old masters in the galleries on the Continent. 
If I could have but one picture, and that of 
my own choosing, I'd take, without hesita- 
tion, Landseer's "A Distinguished Member of 
the Royal Humane Society," not because 
the largest crowd is always before it, nor 
because the easel space is full with artists 
copying it, but because it appeals to my 
heart. One should go several times to this 
gallery that the knowledge gained may be 
properly digested. On the first visit espe- 
cially a guide should be taken. 



78 By the Way 

I have had a most dehghtful opportunity 
to see something of the country hfe of 
England, and one that the casual traveler 
cannot experience, unless she has friends 
living here. It was on a house-boat at 
Borne End, and the memory of that charm- 
ing week will live long after paintings and 
sculptures have faded from my mind. It 
was the last week in June. The Thames was 
in gala dress for the boat races and the 
banks were lined with house-boats — veritable 
bowers of plants and blossoms — ready for 
the Henley regatta. These house-boats are 
really flat-boats supporting summer cottages. 
They are seldom moved except for the races, 
and are then towed up the Thames to Henley 
or Oxford by little tugs. 

The scene is one of unsurpassed loveli- 
ness, the banks lined with these floating 
bowers, the water dotted with thousands 
of small boats, each flying some college 
colors, the fresh-looking English maidens 
in holiday array, the stalwart fellows in 
white duck, the bands of music, the gayety 
and flowers — flowers everywhere. If you 



8o By the Way 

have read the description of an Oxford 
regatta in " The Handsome Humes," you 
will agree with me, I am sure. 

It is a mistaken idea that the English 
people sneer at or slight Americans. Every 
well informed Englishman acknowledges the 
United States to be the most progressive 
nation on earth. Everything American is 
sought after, and American ideas command 
the highest price. 

I have found the better class of English 
the most charming of people, and their 
hospitality knows no limit. My stay here, 
away from my native land, has been one 
bright dream of pleasure, made so particu- 
larly by a dear old English couple whom I 
met first in Paris, by the family on the 
house-boat, and our little English companion, 
Eleanora, who is showing Ruth and me her 
London. 

Elbert Hubbard says something to the 
effect that, to travel through Europe with 
one and still remain friends stamps both as 
remarkably amiable persons. Without wish- 



By the Way 8i 

ing to seem egotistical, I'd like you to know 
that before bidding Eleanora good-by she 
invited me to join her later in a jaunt 
through Italy. 



London, July 21, 
.The packers were here all day, and those 
awful trunks have gone, and we shall not see 
them again until Ruth sails. The dress 
basket we are to share between us has been 
sent to Edinburgh, where we shall be next 
Sunday. 

Just after everything had gone, Maud 
called on'us. Poor child, she is very brave, 
but very homesick at being left behind. She 
is beautiful, and her voice is a superbly rich 
contralto. You must hear her when she 
returns to the States, for I am sure she will 
make a great name for herself. 

The news has just reached us of the 
sinking of a French liner. How horrible! 
With you on that side and I on this. But — 

"No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny." 



82 By the Way 

Lakeside, Windermere, 
West View Villas. 

We left London — -St. Pancras Station — 
at 10:30 yesterday morning, via the Midland 
Railway, stopping en route at Chesterfield 
long enough to see the "Twisted Tower" of 
the cathedral. It was built in the fourteenth 
century, and the book says, "A curioijs 
twist to the spire was caused by the warping 
of the wood." The poor ignorant people 
say it was the devil. It is very odd, whoever 
did it. 

We left the train at Leeds in order to see 
the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, catching the 
next through train by driving to Skipton, 
and here began the most picturesque scenery 
I have found in England. 

The valley of Craven consists of mead- 
ows similar to those of Chester and War- 
wick, but they are softer and greener; the 
same hedges, but darker, higher, and more 
velvety. The woods behind them set them 
off to advantage, and here and there, spark- 
ling in the sunlight, is a little lake. The 
winding white roads and beautiful roses 



By the Way 83 

are everywhere, a fitting setting for all the 
harmony of color. We passed through a 
cafion cut in the rocks, with cliffs as high as 
one can see, and the blue hills of Cumber- 
land burst on our vision. 

This mountain region, called the Eng- 
lish Lake District, is said by the English 
to be the most beautiful spot in the British 
isles, but the Scotch and the Irish each 
claim the same superlative. I shall see 
them all, and shall give you an unpreju- 
diced opinion, but certain it is that within 
these limits lies a wealth of scenery not to 
be very far surpassed anywhere. 

We arrived here at fifteen to six, and 
came directly to West View Villas. After 
a cup of tea we walked out over the mead- 
ows. Have you the slightest idea what an 
English meadow is like ? I had not, and it 
is beyond the power of this poor pen point 
to describe one to you. This one has hills 
on either side, with the clear blue Winder- 
mere at their feet. The white roads wind 
in and out, with this cluster of villas all 
covered with roses, and an old rustic bridge 



84 By the Way 

near by. I am writing this in the sweetest 
and cleanest of rooms, from the window of 
which I see the purple hills in the west and 
the sun just sinking behind them. 



En Route. 

We had heard nothing from Dr. L., 
whom we expected to join us here, and it 
looked as though we would have to go on 
alone. We walked along a lovely lane to 
the steamboat landing, and as we were 
about to start, who should come hurrying 
up but the doctor and his party. 

The sail on Lake Windermere was de- 
lightful. The boat touches at a number of 
picttlresque places once frequented by Scott, 
Wordsworth, and Southey, landing us at 
Amblesides about ten in the morning. Here 
the coach was waiting to take us on one of 
the loveliest drives in Great Britain. All 
the way we glided over the same smooth 
roads, with mountains on one side and Lake 
Grasmere at our feet. We visited the cot- 
tage where Wordsworth lived, the one in 



By the Way 



85 



which Coleridge died, where Arnold wrote 
the "Light of Asia," and the home of Harriet 
Martineau. What wonder that these per- 




OUR ENGLISH COACH 



sons wrote so poetically! One must find 
expression for one's dreams in this land 
of beauty. 

We reached Keswick just in time to board 



86 By the Way 

the train for Penrith, where we changed for 
Carhsle. Here we took time to visit the old 
castle and the really fine cathedral before 
leaving for Melrose, Scotland. So, good-by, 
bright, fragrant, and flowery England 1 



Scotland 



"I canna thole my ain toun, sin' I hae dwelt i' this; 
To bide in Edinboro' reek wad be the tap o' bliss. 
Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap, the skirlin' pipes gae 

bring, 
With thistles fair tie up my hair, while I of Scotia 

sing. 

Kate Douglas Wiggin. 



SCOTLAND 

Waverly Hotel, 
Edinburgh. 

Melrose Abbey by moonlight! What a 
world of meaning those words hold for me! 
What a wealth of history those ruins con- 
tain ! Their story must be read before com- 
ing for the custodian's daughter, who was 
our guide, like Stockton's Pamona, had 
learned her story by heart, and no amount 
of questioning would bring forth any other 
facts save those in the "book." 

This morning Ruth and I hired wheels 
and rode to Abbotsford. The beautiful 
home of Sir Walter Scott is after the style of 
many castles we have seen, walled in with 
gardens, terraced lawns, parks, and drives. 
We plucked a bit of the ivy and holly hedge 
planted by Sir Walter's own hand, and 
walked in the gardens he loved so well. 

Imagine, if you can, a city of three 
hundred thousand inhabitants, having in its 
89 



90 By the Way 

heart an immense rock, with a castle on top 
of it, Edinburgh is rich in landmarks, in 
spite of the fact that it has been burned to 
the ground twice since 1300. Its natural 
beauty surpasses that of either London or 
Paris. It is built upon two ridges, divided 
by a valley, which is now a park. The new 
town is situated to the north of the park, 
and in this portion are found the modern 
buildings and principal hotels. I am living 
in this part of the city, on Princes Street, 
and from my window I look out on the 
marble features of Scott, whose monument 
is at the end of the park. 

The picturesque "Old Town" begins with 
the castle on its huge embankment and 
slopes down toward the south. It is here 
one finds the historic landmarks crowding 
each other in dramatic interest. Here, too, 
is brought vividly to mind the sad story of 
poor Queen Mary. In the valley between 
the old and new towns is found a wealth 
of art and architecture not duplicated any- 
where, for these Scots are strong in their 
originality. 



By the Way 9' 

It was from the esplanade overlooking 
one of the perpendicular sides of the castle 
rock, and which is now used as a drill- 
ground for the soldiers in the barracks, that 
I had my first view of that man-devised 
wonder, the Forth bridge. I crossed it 
afterwards en route to Glasgow. 

A few days is but scant time to do justice 
to the landmarks of Edinburgh, and it 
puzzles one to choose from among those 
orthodox and those otherwise. St. Giles, the 
old Gray Friars, and John Knox vie with 
the haunts of Burns, Scott, Johnson, and 
Boswell. The shops form no small part of 
the attractiveness of the street scene, and the 
windows filled with articles done in plaids 
of the different clans are alluring. 



Bath Hotel, Glasgow. 
Not far from Edinburgh, after passing 
the Firth of Forth, is the pretty town of 
Dunfermline. It is the residence of the 
United States consul, and he made the short 
stop pleasant for us. 



92 By the Way 

The chief difference, I find, between the 
EngHsh and Scottish castles lies in the fact 
that the former are simply residences — 
walled to be sure — while the latter are 
strongholds, generally perched on some 
gigantic rock, and, incidentally, royalty 
resided in them long enough to have their 
heads under the guillotine. Stirling castle is 
no exception to the rule, and it is therefore 
not visited by many women. There is a 
long, hard climb up the hill leading to the 
fortifications, for Stirling is still a garrisoned 
town, and the castle stands on the edge of 
a steep, isolated rock overhanging the Forth. 
Here are the steps where Mary, Queen of 
Scots, stood to survey her possessions, the 
window out of which the body of Douglas 
was thrown, and the raised dais, on the 
battlements, from which Queen Victoria 
reviewed her troops. From the battlements 
there is a fine view of the country for miles 
around, with the statue of Wallace to be 
seen in the far distance. Just before crossing 
the drawbridge at the entrance to the castle 
stands a bronze Robert Bruce, whose 



By the Way 93 

features, even in iron, bring back the fore- 
most of Scottish chiefs. 



When a Scotchman teUs you to do or see 
anything, he invariably adds, "If the day be 
fine," and true enough much depends on the 
''fineness" of the day in a country where it 
rains a Httle every day. The good wishes 
had been so many and so fervent that we 
might have a fine day for the coach drive 
through the Trossachs that nature put on 
her brightest smile and never shed a tear 
until we were under shelter. 

The name Trossachs signifies "bristly 
country," and Scott, in his "Lady of the 
Lake," tells how it "bristles" with beauty 
and romance. That old story is, after all, 
the best guide to the lake region of Scotland. 

The big red coach, with its four white 
horses and red-coated driver, meets the 
passengers as they alight from the traveling 
carriages, and dashes away almost before 
they are seated. Then follows in quick 
succession pictures of white roads bordered 
with purple heather, with a background of 



94 By the Way 

the dark green of the mountain; of a stone 
bridge spanning the blue waters of a salmon 
stream; of a wild bit of mountain scenery 
with a road seemingly straight up its rugged 
sides; and last comes the view of the calm 
waters of Loch Katrine. 

The boat Rob Roy receives the party from 
the coach and rounds Ellen's Isle, sailing 
almost the entire length of the beautiful 
loch. When she finally lands, there is 
another coach waiting to carry us across the 
mountains, and on to Inversnaid, where, after 
visiting the waterfall, the train is taken for 
Glasgow. 

Glasgow is not a picturesque town — in 
fact, the Clyde is the prettiest thing about 
it — but it is modern and progressive, and it 
has two attractive public buildings, the ca- 
thedral and university. 

Ayr, Scotland. 

Burns'-land lies between Glasgow and the 

sea, and from the moment that one alights 

from the train, at each step is found some 

haunt of the much-loved poet. It takes but 



By the Way 



95 



a short time to peep through the window 
into the room where Burns was born, and to 
compare the humble cot where he hved his 




THE BONNIE DOON 



hfe with the magnificent place he occupies 
in death. His tomb is set high up on a hill 
in the midst of a park whose sides slope 
down to the bonnie Doon. 



Ireland 

"When the glass is up to thirty, 
Be sure the weather will be dirty. 
When the glass is high, O very! 
There'll be rain in Cork or Kerry. 
When the glass is low, O Lork! 
There'll be rain in Kerry and Cork. 

And when the glass has climbed its best, 
The sky is weeping in the west." 

Kate Douglas Wiggin. 



IRELAND 

Larne, Ireland. 
The shortest sea voyage between Scot- 
land and Ireland is from Stranrauer to Larne. 
Stranrauer is a short ride from Ayr, but the 
S. S. Princess Victoria was five hours cross- 
ing the channel. It was cold and rough, 
and many of the passengers were ill. 

One of the most fatiguing of trips is that 
of the Giant's Causeway. From Larne the 
road takes its way through a number of 
thriving towns, and the country looks neat 
and has an air of the well-to-do. 

At Portrush the scene changes, and be- 
comes, almost at once, one of wild rugged- 
ness. The cliffs rise high on one side, and 
the steep precipice at the edge of the tram- 
way goes down to the sea on the other. This 
is a most extraordinary coast. The action 
of the waves and the tides on the limestone 
have made the rocks take on most fantastic 
99 



loo By the Way 

shapes. The ocean is always tempestous. 
It must be beautiful from the water, but 
nothing save small boats can venture here, 
so the view is almost unknown. This sort 
of scene continues until we reached Dunluce 
castle. 

Perched on the summit of an isolated rock, 
not far from the shore, is this picturesque 
fortress. The rock is separated from the 
mainland by a deep chasm. The castle is 
reached by a drawbridge, while beneath the 
waves beat madly against the sides of the 
rock, black with the age of centuries. 

The word causeway means paving, and 
these Irish giants certainly paved well. Ba- 
saltic rock is plentiful along the north coast, 
but this particular district alone embraces 
these odd varieties of form. The caves 
along the coast can be seen only by means 
of row-boats. These are manned by strong 
and trustworthy sailors. The sea is very 
rough, and the boatmen delight in making 
the trip seem even more hazardous than per- 
haps it really is. After the caves have been 
explored the boat is rowed to the extreme 



By the Way loi 

end of the Causeway, and it is during the 
walk back that we get the best idea of these 
wonderful formations, and have a hair-rais- 
ing experience on a narrow path three hun- 
dred and twenty feet in air. At first it was 
delightful — high, of course, but with a broad 
path. On turning a sharp corner, suddenly 
we came to a narrowing of the way, with 
nothing but rocks and sky above, and rocks 
and sea below. We dared not turn back, 
and we walked that terrible pass until we 
came to a widening in the path — it seemed 
hours^ — and then Ruth and I sat down and 
cried from sheer exhaustion. It cost us ten 
shillings to enter by the sea and six to make 
our exit by land. How is that for the down- 
trodden Irish ? 



Great Southern Hotel, 

KiLLARNEY. 

I wish I were a poet! But even the poet 
laureate, who recently visited here, says, 
"Words cannot do justice to this sweet, sad 
scene." His word "sad" pleased me, for I 



I02 By the Way 

said yesterday to Ruth that the scenery of 
Ireland has a tenderness about it that 
makes one quiet and think things. 

We started at nine-thirty in a four-horse 
coach with a bugler. The road lies along 
the north side of the lower lake, and it wasn't 
long before the exquisite mountain scenery 
came into view. The Purple Mountains 
grew more interesting at every step. 
Presently we came to Kate Kearney's cot- 
tage, and our Irish guide turned and asked, 
in the richest of brogues: 

"Oh! have you ever heard of Kate Kearney? 
She lived at the Lakes of Killarney; 
One glance of her eye would make a man die; 
And have you never heard of Kate Kearney?" 

Further on we strike the mountain pass, 
where the coach cannot go. We dismounted 
and were placed on ponies. I thought at 
first I could not ride one, but I soon got used 
to the saddle, and I would not have missed 
the wild, weird pass over the mountain for 
anything. There was nothing "sad" or 
"tender" about that. It was grand, fearful, 
• awesome, and mysterious. There is noth- 



By the Way 



103 



ing in Switzerland, I understand, more fas- 
cinating. 

We left the ponies at the foot of the 
mountains and paid toll into Lord Brandon's 




GAP OF DUNLOE 



estate in order to reach the boats. Lunch 
was served on the banks of the upper lake. 
These lakes have to be explored in row- 
boats, on account of the narrows, a pass 
between the rocks not more than ten feet 



I04 By the Way 

apart. Such varied beauty I have seen 
nowhere else. The tender grace of the 
heather-strewn valley against the back- 
ground of hills, the frequent change from 
the gentle to the stern, the calm-flowing 
waters, the smiling cascades turning into 
dashing cataracts over dangerous piles, are 
a never-ending source of surprises. The 
upper lake is more placid and less change- 
able, but the lower has every change, from 
smooth, glass-like waters to the rapids, which 
we ''shoot" in no fearless manner. Finally 
we alight on Innisfallen Island to see the 
ruins of the abbey; then across to Ross 
Castle. Here another coach and four was in 
waiting to carry us home. After ten miles 
by coach, five on horseback, and thirteen 
by boat I actually dress for dinner. 

We were up with the larks this morning, 
packed everything very carefully, sent the 
basket off by carted luggage, and nearly 
came to blows with the stupid paddy at the 
station over the settlement. 

After breakfast the coach came dashing up, 



By the Way 



105 



and away we flew again, over the purple 
hills, through shady lanes, past the wee 
farms and the hovel, catching glimpses of 




MEETING OF THE WATERS, LAKES OP KILLARNEY 



castles, churches, and ruins. The most beau- 
tiful of all is Muckross Abbey. I had no 
idea we could possibly repeat the pleasures 
of yesterday, but in some respects we ex- 
ceeded them. Our road to-day wound up 



io6 By the Way 

and around Eagle Nest Mountain, in the 
dark recesses of which the eagle builds its 
nest. Here, too, is the home of the famous 
Killarney echo. The effect produced by 
the notes of a bugle is almost supernatural. 

The coachmen have a clever manner of 
talking to the echoes. For instance, ours 
called out, "Pat, were you drunk last night ?" 
and the confession came back from a 
thousand hills, "Drunk last night, drunk 
last night, drunk last night." 

The literary Killarnian claims for this 
beautiful region that it was the ruins of the 
old castle on the shores of the Middle Lake 
which called forth Tennyson's masterpiece, 
"The Bugle Song." 

The Purple Mountains take their name 
from the purple of the heather. One can 
see every shade, from the light pink-lavender 
to the dark, almost red, purple. To me the 
Irish heather is much prettier than the 
Scotch. 

We arrived at Glengarriff just as the sun 
was sinking. The valley, the lakes, the 
mountains, the red coach, with its four big 



By the Way 107 

horses darting in and out of the winding 
road, and finally galloping up to the exquisite 
little inn at Glengarriff, high on a knoll 
overlooking the blue waters of the Bay of 
Bantry, are among the delightful details of 
to-day's picture. 

The shore line of this attractive bay can 
only be appreciated when one is taken in a 
small boat, threading one's way through 
the numberless private yachts that dot it's 
waters. One of the gentlemen of our party, 
thinking to have some sport with the boat- 
man, said that only one lady could go in 
each boat, and that he must choose the one 
he wished to go with him. After a critical 
survey the answer came, "Divil a step will I 
go without the both of yez!" and he handed 
us both into his boat, and left the gentlemen 
to seek a boat by themselves. 

Cork, Ireland. 

We left the coach at Bantry and took an 

observation car to Cork. After a rest of a 

few hours and a dainty luncheon a jaunting 

car "shook" us over the road to Blarney 



io8 



By the Way 



Castle. The road lies through a beautifully 
cultivated country. There is a charm about 
the sweet old castle that is indescribable. 
The view from the top is superb, taking in 




IRISH JAUNTING CAR 



the valley of the Lee, with the old Roman 
bridge in the far distance. When any one 
tells you that he kissed the Blarney stone, 
take it with several grains of salt. It is a 
physical impossibility for one who wears 
petticoats. 



By the Way 



109 



Cork is, to my mind, the prettiest town 
in all Ireland. It lies in the midst of lime- 
stone quarries, and is white to a degree. I 




OUR FIRST VIEW OF BLARNEY CASTLE 



had not read Thackeray's "Sketch Book" 
before I came here, and I wondered why 
some one had not raved over this magnificent 
part of the world. I have since been 
delighted to find that he did rave — I use the 



no By the Way 

word advisedly — as no one but Thackeray 
can. 

Cork has more well-known landmarks 
than any other place in Ireland. In a little 
three-storied bell tower in the center of the 
town hangs the chime of bells made famous 
by Francis Mahoney in his — 

"With deep affection and recollection 
I often think of the Shandon bells." 

One of the pleasant drives from Cork takes 
one to Sir Walter Raleigh's home at Yaughal. 
For more than four hundred years it has 
stood with but little change. Attached to 
the grounds is the garden where Raleigh 
experimented with the potato, which was 
here first grown in Ireland. 

We were a rather solemn lot on the drive to 
Queenstown,for all but Ruth and I were to sail 
from there for home. This seeing people off 
isn't what "it's cracked up" to be, especially 
when they are off for the land where "some 
one loves you and thinks of you far away," 
but we wished them hon voyage, and Ruth 
and I turned our hard-set faces northward. 



By the Way 



III 



I AND 2 Great Denmark Street, 

Dublin. 

Ah, well! All things must have an end, 
and so this all too happy summer must come 
to a close. I remain here to study, and 
Ruth goes to Iceland. We shall meet in the 
spring, when I have taken my degree ( ?) , 
and go to sunny Italy together. 

I was sitting on the deck of the ship that 
was to carry Ruth away from me, looking 
at the lights out over Dubhn Bay, when 
some one touched me on the shoulder, and, 
on turning around, there stood dear Miss 
B., who was with us for a time at Killarney. 
I met her father on the street the other day, 
and told him of Ruth's intended departure. 
They were very good to come to us that night, 
and I shall never forget their kindness in 
helping me over these first trying days of my 
loneliness without my blessed Ruth. Through 
them I have made some charming friends 
who occupy the time before I start in to study. 

I have had a delightful outing, one which 
enabled me to see, and in an uncommon 



Ill By the Way 

manner, certain out-of-the-way places where 
the casual tourists rarely go, and it has all 
been due to the friends of Miss B. These 
Irish know how to do things well. 

We started away with a regular cavalcade, 
most of the women in the coach, a few on 
horseback. The servants went ahead with 
the wagons carrying the viands and rugs, 
and — oh, an hundred things we Americans 
would never think of. 

Dublin has more pleasure resorts at her 
door than any other city in the world. We 
drove out through Phoenix Park, passing the 
summer home of the Lord Lieutenant of 
Ireland. We made our first stop at Killiney 
Castle to get the fine view of Dublin Bay. 
It was from this spot that the poet wrote: 

"O, Bay of Dublin! 
My heart you're troublin'. 
Your beauty haunts me 
Like a fever dream." 

Then we dashed away to Bray and Bray's 
Head, along the Esplanade, through the 
Scalp, a wild bit of country in the county of 
Wicklow, and the Dargle, which is a roman- 



By the Way 113 

tic glen. We never go slowly — the horses 
are either galloping, or stopped altogether. 
Then on through Enniskerry, a lovely little 
village, where everybody stopped or ran to 
the door to watch us go by, with a wave of 
the hand, and always a "God bless ye!" 

I could not believe such magnificence 
were possible in Ireland as was found at 
Powers Court had I not seen it with my own 
eyes. It is the finest private mansion I have 
seen in all my travels. The Vale of Avoca, 
which called from Moore these lines, 

"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, 
As the vale on whose bosom these bright waters 
meet," 

did not appeal to me so much as did Kill- 
arney. 

The city of Kilkenny, called the "Marble 
City," impressed itself on me. The streets 
are paved with marble of their own quarry- 
ing, and what is better, the inhabitants have 
fire without smoke, from a peculiar coal 
found in that district. They also claim to 
have water without mud, and earth without 



114 By the Way 

bog, and however true these boasts may be, 
it is a wonderfully clean city. The coach 
was sent back from this place by the servants, 
and we returned by train. 

It all seems very tame in this telling of 
mine, but the trip was delightful, every 
moment of it. Sometimes we would all get 
out and walk; sometimes the ladies would 
exchange with the men and ride horseback; 
or the men would crowd into the coach, as 
when it would rain for a few moments. Then 
there would be good fun, and I could get an 
idea of their thoughts. They are great 
story-tellers, these Irish, and have such 
warm hearts, especially for the poor. I am 
sure many pounds were given away during 
that jaunt. And the songs they sang, when 
shall I ever hear such again ? And yet there 
was not a young person, that is, one under 
thirty, in the party. Other things besides 
wine, my dear, "improve with age." 

There is a pathos about the love of an 
Irishman for his country that is most touch- 
ing, and each county vies with the others in 
patriotic loyalty; and let me whisper in 



By the Way 1 1 5 

your ear, that the Irish gentry are far and 
away ahead of — "what the world thinks" 
they are. In fact, they are ''deloitful." 

I suppose you have noticed the number 
of ''Kills" which form some part of many 
of the names I have referred to. "Kil" is 
the Gaelic for ''church." One of my Irish 
friends told the story of an Englishman who 
went over to Ireland and fell upon the fol- 
lowing conversation between two tough- 
looking natives: "I'm afther being over to 
Kilpatrick," said the first. "An' I," replied 
the other, "am afther being over to Kil- 
mary." "And where are you going now ?" 
asked number one. "To Kilmore," was 
the answer. 

The frightened Englishman concluded not 
to tarry in such a bloodthirsty country, and 
stood not upon the order of his going. 



I AND 2 Great Denmark Street, 

Dublin. 

Did you notice that I celebrated the day 
of days — to us — in writing that last letter ? 



ii6 By the Way 

Since, I have been very busy getting in trim 
for work, and at last I'm ''fit." 

I have been taking my afternoons to see 
this wonderful city. I told you, did I not, 
that because I am in these blessed petti- 
coats, I am obliged to recite "apart" — not 
"apart" from the petticoats, but apart from 
the unpetticoated sort — and I am glad of it. 

I was in Belfast last week with some Amer- 
ican friends, and we drove to Shane's Castle 
and to Carron Towers, the seat of the Mar- 
chioness of Londonderry. The Americans 
then went on to the Causeway, and I came 
back to the "Great Denmark." My home 
is in quite a nice-looking house, and it is well 
furnished, but the landlady is away, and 
the maidens, all forlorn, do it up when and 
how they please. I have a large room 
"front," and as I study here every morn- 
ing, and write much of the remainder of the 
time, my room is "tidied" only when I ask 
for it, and then, of course, it is an extra. 

We are but a step from Sackville Street, 
one of the finest thoroughfares in Europe. 
The picture I am sending you is taken from 



By the Way 



117 



O'Connell's bridge, and the colossal monu- 
ment to Daniel O'Connell is in the fore- 
ground. The tall pillar, midway up the 
street, is the Nelson monument to com- 




-.oSfeaxft'TSf '. . iif^' j^\,, Z-jstj i-ig^. „ 



SACKVILLE STREET 

memorate the hero of Trafalgar. You may 
be -interested to know that I pass the beau- 
tiful column every day. 

Will you beHeve me when I tell you that 
nowhere in Europe have I seen more lovely 
or better dressed women than right here on 
Sackville Street ? I have accounted for it, 



ii8 By the Way 

in some degree, by the fact that our Irish 
cousins follow the American styles more 
closely than do any of their immediate sis- 
ters. The Irish women are always in good 
form. One never sees them wearing any 
sort of jewelry before luncheon. They are 
usually found in the morning in short, 
tailored skirts, a chic blouse, and natty hats; 
some dainty confection of lace and muslin 
in the afternoon; and, almost without ex- 
ception, the middle class, as well as the 
gentry, "dress" for dinner; and then one 
sees the beautiful jewels handed down by 
their forebears. 

The college buildings are delightfully 
quaint, with their multitude of old-fashioned 
wee window-panes which stud their face. 
Statues of two of Ireland's beloved sons, 
Burke and Goldsmith, are on either side of 
the entrance. Opposite is the famous bank 
of Ireland, beautiful in design, and the gen- 
eral post-ofi&ce. Statues of "Hibernia," 
"Mercury," and "Fidelity" adorn the latter. 

For some reason an Irishman, in his native 
country, will not admit ignorance on any sub- 



By the Way 



119 



ject. He would rather tell you wrongly 
than to say "I don't know." Some one asked 
a jarvey what those statues I have just men- 
tioned were. Pat hadn't their names 




TRINITY COLLEGE 



handy in his mind, so he drew on his im- 
agination, and replied: "Thim's the twelve 
apostles sur." ''Twelve apostles," shouted 
the inquirer, "why, man, there are only 
three of them!" To which Pat, not to be 
caught by such a trifle, said: "Sure, an' yer 
honor wouldn't have thim all out in this 



I20 By the Way 

dom rain, would ye ? The rest of 'em are 
inside sortin' o' the letters." 

The first day I was shown over Dublin 
my guide, in pointing out the college, said: 
"This is the Library, and an institute for 
learning." I asked, "How far does the 
Library extend ?" meaning which was the 
Library and which the Institute. The hon- 
est, but thick-headed, paddy replied, "To 
the roof, mum." 

The comparative neglect by tourists of a 
country like Ireland, where nature has lav- 
ished her charms with such wonderful pro- 
fusion, can only be explained by its hitherto 
unsettled condition, and its long-a-dying 
notoriety for inferior accommodations and 
modes of transportation. But whatever 
difficulties and discomforts may have existed 
to deter the traveler in former days, it seems 
to me that little now is wanting to render 
a tour through Ireland all that the rational 
traveler can desire. 

It is well nigh impossible to tell of the ex- 
quisite scenery of the beautiful island with- 



By the Way 121 

out seeming fulsome. Almost every county 
so teems with prehistoric remains, and the 
island is so begirt with varied attractiveness, 
that it is as alluring to the student and artist 
as it is to the pleasure-seeker. 



Italy 



"For Italy, my Italy, mere words are faint! 
No writer's pencil can convey thy heaven's blue, 
Thy languorous bay. 
Thou art thine own interpreter. 
I dream and wake and find no words for her — 
For Italy's soft -storied charms 
I throAV the English words away. 
Her gondolas drip through the night — 
I stretch my arms toward Napoli, 
And 'Monte Bella' softly say." 

Harriet Axtell Johnstone. 



ITALY 

CocuMELLA Hotel, 
Sorrento, Italy, May 5. 

How nice it seems to be free again ! And 
yet I do believe it does one good to take a 
few months every year or so — having been 
out of the habit of studying — and give close 
application to some subject. 

I was glad when the time came to cease 
traveling and to begin study; and now I am 
glad that I can cease my studies and again 
begin sight-seeing. 

Ruth, as you know, found it necessary to 
return to America before joining me. She 
sailed from New York the i8th ult., on the 
Tartar Prince, and I met her at Ponta Del- 
gada. Ponta Delgada is the chief city of 
the island of San Miguel, which, in turn, is 
the principal island of the Azores, and it is 
prominent as having the most beautiful gar- 
dens in the world. 

Among the passengers who boarded the 
ship with me at Ponta Delgada was a de- 
125 



126 By the Way 

lightful Portuguese family — the mother, son 
and his wife — who came with us to Italy. 
They are charming, cultured people, and 
speak English perfectly, though the mother 




PONTA DELGADA, AZORES 



and wife had never before been off the 
island. 

We left the Azores on the 27th of April, 
passing Gibraltar on May Day. Gibrahar is 
grand, but not so frowning as I had im- 
agined, for the graceful rock smiled down 



By the Way 1 27 

on us as if in greeting. We passed near 
enough to see life going on in the town, 
and then headed for the African coast, that 
we might catch a ghmpse of the vegetation 
along the shore. 

All that has been written about the blue 
Mediterranean is true. It is blue as nothing 
else is. The sky, those days, was greenish 
pink, and you know what a delight to the 
eye is the blending of these colors. But the 
one bright memory that stands out clearest 
when I think of the Mediterranean are the 
sunsets. I remember one night in particular. 
The good captain told me to hasten from 
dinner. I drew my chair close to the rail, and 
out beyond the horizon I saw a city of fire. 
The beautiful mansions, and cathedrals, and 
castles, with turrets and towers, were all 
ablaze. Through the streets people in fiery 
red draperies were flying from the flames. 
Sometimes an old man with flowing beard 
appeared in the midst of them, and with 
out-stretched hands, would seem to call aloud. 
The flames turned to a greenish gold, the 



128 By the Way 

smoke rolled away, and far beyond appeared 
a Moorish village, the temples carved of 
alabaster. Suddenly, through the lace-like 
pillars, came the faintest tint of pink, growing 
dimmer and dimmer, until only the outlines 
could be discerned. A great billowy sea of 
foam rolled over the village, and divided on 
either side of a world of golden fire, and, as 
I gazed, it dropped into the black water. 

A voice said, "Come, dear, the captain 
wants you to see the moon come up out 
of the sea." It was my blessed Ruth. 

"Did you see that burning city and Moor- 
ish village? I asked, as soon as I had re- 
turned to earth. "Yes, dear," she replied, 
and there were tears in her eyes, too. 

This morning we were called at five 
o'clock to see the sun rise over Vesuvius- 
The same ball of golden fire which went 
down in the sea that night crowned for a 
brief moment the wonderful Mount. 

The Bay of Naples is unlike anything else 
on earth. On one side are the castles, or 
villas, or pleasure resorts, whichever it be 



By the Way 129 

that comes to your gaze as you glide past; 
on the other, the turquoise-blue water; and 
far in the distance, like a camel with two 
humps, rising out of the sea, is Capri. The 
air is filled with music, and the scene is one 
of the wildest confusion. Every sort of 
craft that sails the seas, every sort of flag, 
every sort of sound, cause you to wonder 
if you will ever get through that throng. 
The ship i^ stopped, the steps are let down 
the side, and the doctor and the purser with 
the mail come on board. 

While we were busy with our letters from 
home one of the party with whom we were 
to go through the Blue Grotto had bargained 
with a boatman to take us to the ship that 
goes to Capri. 

The mode of going ashore here at Naples 
is different from that of any other port where 
I have landed. Hundreds of stout row- 
boats come from the various hotels, just as 
the busses meet the trains in the smaller 
cities at home,- 

The Blue Grotto must be visited on a 
clear, calm day, and some old travelers ad- 



130 By the Way 

vised us, if the day was fine, to go directly 
from the ship before landing. The captain 
allowed us to leave our luggage on board, as 
the ship will stay in Naples for several days 
to unload freight. There were six of us, 
then, transferred to the German Lloyd S. S. 
Nixe. 

As we sailed away, Vesuvius and Sorrento 
were to the left, the city of Naples behind 
us, and the outlines of Capri ahead. We 
went directly to the Grotto, or rather as near 
as the large boat goes. Here, again, we 
take to the row-boats, two in each. The 
Grotto itself is a cavern in the side of the 
huge rocks of Capri. It is necessary to lie 
flat in the boat to get through the tiny open- 
ing. I could readily see why the authorities 
do not permit visitors on stormy days, for 
the sea was very rough even on this quiet 
morning. The interior of the cave is very 
high, and the effect of the reflection of the 
sun on the blue waters is indescribable. 
Everything under water takes on a silvery 
hue, and the echo is weird. 

On board the ship once more, we sailed 



132 By the Way 

away from this real fairies' abode to the 
town of Capri, arriving at high noon, and 
as the town is on the side of a mountain, 
we dimbed up a good part of its side to get a 
lunch. It was my first Italian meal, and 
it was delicious. Of course there was 
macaroni in the Italian style, with beef-stock 
and tomatoes, and fried fresh sardines. The 
dessert was a fruit, something like our 
California plum, which I tasted for the first 
time at the Azores, the nespera. 

After the repast we hired a carriage for 
Anacapri. The road, hewn out of solid 
rock, lies along the mountain side, giving us 
a magnificent view of the bay, with Vesuvius 
always in sight. No matter from which side 
one looks, one will find that well-known 
peak, with the black smoke pouring from its 
mouth, in evidence. 

We caught the Nixe on her return trip 
to Sorrento. Here, again, the little boats 
meet us, each bearing the name of its hotel 
on a silken banner. The boatman shouts 
out the name of the one he represents until 
a passenger calls, in turn, his choice. We 



By the Way 133 

were going to the Cocumella, and I wish you 
might have heard the boatman call, in his 
soft, musical voice, "Co — ceh — m-e-1-l-a! 
Co — ceh^m-e-1-l-a!" The steward helped 
us into the boat, and we were rowed to an 
opening in the chff. The town lies on the 
top of perpendicular rocks, and we struggled 
up five hundred steps cut in a tunnel through 
the mountain, coming out at the top into 
the lovely garden of this hotel. 

The Cocumella was once a monastery, and 
its situation is ideal. Here is a place where 
I should be willing to spend the remainder 
of my days, and by the length of this letter, 
you may think I am going to put the account 
of them all in it. 



Hotel Metropole, 

Naples, Italy, 

May 6. 

Ruth is such a brick! She is not afraid 
of her shadow, and she likes to be alone 
some time each day. That remark was 
called forth by the number of tourists one 



134 By the Way 

meets who are worn to the bone by com- 
panions who are afraid to room alone or to 
look out of the window alone — to eat, sleep, 
walk, talk, or pray alone — and who must 
have some one close by them every moment 
of the time. 

Last night, on our walk about Sorrento, 
we passed the house of Mr. Marion Craw- 
ford. We slept in an old palazzo- — the hotel 
was crowded — with no locks on the doors, 
and with windows opening onto a garden; 
but we did not mind, and rested well. 

This morning in two carriages, for there 
were eight of us, we went for the drive from 
Sorrento to Amalfi. The road, cut out of 
the rock, with a balustrade of stone to protect 
the traveler from the precipice, is regarded 
as one of the finest pieces of engineering in 
existence. Sometimes a viaduct, perhaps 
five hundred feet high, will span a chasm. 
It winds up and around the mountain, and 
the view, with the Bay of Naples at its feet, 
is sublimely picturesque. The almost per- 
pendicular sides of the mountain, between 
the road on the different levels, are terraced 



By the Way 



135 



and planted with olive, lemon, or other 
fruit trees. 

The drive was ended at Vietri about five, 
and we returned to Naples by train, having 




our first glimpse of Pompeii and our first 
ride on an Italian railway. 



Naples, May 7. 

It rained in torrents all day, but, nothing 

daunted, we started for the Customs. That 

sounds very commonplace and innocent, but 



136 By the Way 

it spells a mad, wild sort of a time. In the 
first place, we had to beg, borrow, and 
finally- to steal a facchino (porter), and 
induced him to get a boatman to fetch our 
luggage from the ship, fully a mile out in the 
bay. We paid him first to show there were 
no hard feelings, again to get a tarpaulin to 
cover the luggage, and again and again for — 
I know not what. 

Then we sat down and waited — stood up 
and waited — purchased all the post-cards in 
the little cafe and wrote to every one we 
knew— waited some more, and, finally — yes, 
they came. There was another transferring 
of coins — always from my hand into that of 
the facchino— then the Customs with its 
fees, and the cabman with his, and all the 
time I had to take their word for the change, 
for I had notmastered the lira. 

Before leaving Naples we visited Pompeii. 
I was disappointed at first with these wonder- 
ful ruins. There is much that one must 
imagine. One must take the word of the 
guide for everything, and they have a little 




STREET SCENE NAPLES 



138 By the Way 

way of "space-filling" which has lost its 
charm for me. But Pompeii grew on me 
each moment of my stay. We were taken 
in a sedan chair carried on the shoulders of 
two strong peasants. The general appear- 
ance is that of a town which had been swept 
by a tornado, unroofing the houses and 
leaving only the walls standing. It is on these 
walls that one finds the exquisite bits of col- 
oring which has given us the Pompeiian tints. 

One is lost in amazement surrounded by 
these ruins of another age, and remembering 
that the entire city was buried from sight 
for fifteen centuries. 

The following day we visited the poor 
quarters of Naples, and in the evening took 
the fashionable drive and saw the Neapolitan 
"four hundred." 

The charm of Naples lies in the wonderful 
scenery surrounding it and in its street 
scenes, with the noise and clatter of its street 
vendors. Life in the poorer quarters is like 
that in no other city, being free and open to 
public gaze. All the duties of the household 
are performed in the street. 



By the Way 



139 



72 Via Sistina, 
Rome, May 12. 

The first thing to learn in Rome is the 
pronunciation of the name of the street and 
the number of your pension, in order that 




SPANISH STEPS 



you may be able to get home. Our pronun- 
ciation is set-tahn-tah dew-ey vee-ah sis-teen- 
ah, and the manner with which we hop into 
a cab and say it to the cocchiere stamps us 
as old Italians. 

Our home here is at the top of the Scala 



140 By the Way 

Di Spagna (Spanish steps), right in the 
heart of the new town. We walk down the 
steps every morning as we start out to the 
American Express office to get our letters, 
but we come up the '4ift" — for ten centimes. 

It is absolutely necessary to be driven 
about Rome accompanied by a guide, whether 
one's stay is to be of long or short duration. 
In no other manner can one comprehen- 
sively grasp this vast array of ancient and 
modern art, nor the colossal expanse of 
architecture, both standing and in ruins. 
After having been shown the important 
places, it is well to return alone, and at 
leisure ponder over those things which most 
appeal to the heart as well as to the senses. 

We were fortunate in securing the services 
of one of the best of Roman guides, Signor 
Seraphino Malespina, and for three days had 
a carriage to places the names of which take 
up much of the space in an ancient history. 

The letters from the archbishop have 
proven of great assistance to me socially. I 



By the Way 141 

have been the guest at a dehghtful tea in 
the palazzo Pamphity, on the piazza Navona, 
and there met the baroness of whom the 
archbishop spoke. She was most gracious, 
and speaks English fluently. She has invited 
me to a very private audience next Sunday. 
One evening Father C. paid me a visit, 
and from him I got a careful explanation 
of the significance of that much-used word 
"basilica." Originally it was a portico sepa- 
rated from some public building, not unlike 
the peristyle at our Columbian Exposition, 
save that it need not, of necessity, be near 
any body of water ; in fact, it rarely was in 
the old Roman days. The basilica of the 
old forums were really walks under cover. 
In later days these porticos were inclosed 
and made into churches. The name basilica 
still clung to them, and now the oblong 
space forming the main body between the 
pillars in any church edifice, without regard 
to the style of architecture, is so called. 

I have read somewhere, in the reveries of a 
bachelor (not Ik Marvel's), that ''style is 



142 By the Way 

born IN a woman and ON a man." I 
wonder how he knew — perhaps he had been 
in Rome. The style of the greater number 
of foreign tourists of the female persuasion 
must be ''in," as there is little visible to the 
naked eye. But the style of these Italian 
soldiers is "on," indeed, and they are on 
dress parade the livelong day. I have used 
all my superlatives, but really in no city 
on earth does one see such gloriously, ex- 
quisitely dressed little men as are the sol- 
diers of Italy, and especially of Rome. The 
Bersaglieri form the elite corps, and wear 
a large round hat, with a multitude of cock's 
plumes, tipped far on one side of the head. 
This tribute to the swagger appearance of 
the soldiers is also applicable to the young 
priests, monks, and students, and even the 
butlers and footmen. 

On a fete day we went to mass at St. 
Peters, and were repaid by meeting our 
Portuguese friends, who took us to drive 
through the beautiful parks and grounds 
of the Villa Borghese, returning to luncheon 



By the Way 143 

with us at our pension. This home of ours 
is a very attractive place, but it tries my 
soul to be forced to go through a ten-course 
dinner each night, when I am anxious to 
get out. The words change or haste are 
unknown here, and it is only endurable be- 
cause the dinner is so exquisitely prepared 
and served. 

We have some interesting and clever peo- 
ple at our table; a family from Boston, two 
dear girls from Washington, a brother and 
sister from Philadelphia, who have lived 
here for years, and a beautiful Canadian. 
The last named sits next me, and our sotto 
voce conversations have brought out the fact 
that her heart is full of love for all things. 
She is Canadian only by birth, and among 
the array of smartly dressed Americans in 
the pension, she leads. 

I do not wish to be put on record as one 
who judges a woman solely by her clothes; 
but oh, the American woman here is in- 
comparable. I agree with Lillian Bell, that 
the women of no other race can compare 
with her in dress, or taste, or carriage. She 



144 By the Way 

is bewitching! She is a type! I believe I 
once told you that we had no type. I take 
it back. We have, and so glorious an one 
that I am proud to claim kinship with her. 

You will be shocked, I am sure, when I 
tell you that I do not agree with Mr. How- 
ells, nor yet with my beloved Hawthorne, 
for I love modern Rome. To be sure, Haw- 
thorne wrote of Rome in 1858, and Mr. 
Howells in 1864, and it may be the shops 
were not so altogether enticing in those 
early days, or it may be because they were 
not women that the shops had no charm for 
them; but if they had known Castellani, the 
goldsmith on the piazza di Trevi, who 
executes designs from the old Grecian, 
Etruscan, and Byzantine models, or Roc- 
cheggiani's exquisite mosaics and cameo 
carvings, it is probable their opinions v/ould 
be modified. 

Michelangelo's Moses is not in the big St. 
Peter's of the Vatican, but in St. Peter's of 
Vincoli. This was a surprise to me, for I 



By the Way 145 

had supposed to the contrary. I have asked 
many times, to no avail, w^hy Michelangelo 
put horns on his Moses, until a learned 
monk told me that, in an early translation 
of the scriptures, the v^ord horns v^as incor- 
rectly given for skin. Notwithstanding the 
disproportion of its outlines, the gigantic 
statue is, to me. the most wonderful thing 
ever cut from a block of marble. 

I have done a horribly "American" thing — 
smuggled my camera into the Capitol, Run 
ning the risk of having it confiscated, and 
got a splendid picture of that exquisite Faun 
of Praxiteles, made famous by Hawthorne's 
"Marble Faun." 

We have an ascensior (elevator) in our 
pension. The big concierge puts me in, 
locks the door, unlocks the catch, and lets 
it go. When it gets to my floor it is supposed 
to stop, and in the same breath to have its 
door unfastened, and all I have to do is to 
walk out. Sometimes, however, it stops mid- 
way between floors, and then I wish I had 
walked up. I find Roman and Spanish 



146 By the Way 

steps just as fatiguing to climb as any others, 
and patronize the ascensiors with vigor. 
We went by appointment one day to the 




THE MARBLE FAUN 



By the Way 147 

Rospigliosi palazzo to return the visit of our 
Portuguese friends, Signor and Signora A., 
and were taken into another part of the palace 
to see Guido Reni's Aurora. The picture 
is painted on the ceihng, and there is an ar- 
rangement of mirrors by which one can 
view it without having to tire the neck with 
looking up so constantly. It is the greatest 
painting that has been done in the last two 
hundred years. In the evening we all went 
to hear Gioconda at the Teatro Adriano. 
The Italian audience seemed, by the up- 
roarious applause that greeted each aria, 
to appreciate the music, but talked con- 
tinually through it all. 

We have revisited many of the places 
which most interested us during our three 
days' drive with the guide about the city, and 
have whiled away many delightful mornings 
in the shops. We rest a little in the early 
part of each afternoon, and then, almost 
invariably, we drive on the Corso and to the 
Pincian Gardens, where the band plays from 
five until an hour after Ave Maria. Here 



148 By the Way 



one sees the smart Romans, and in fact 
people of nearly every race on earth, in their 
best attire, on pleasure bent. 

It is needless to tell you that we take a 
carriage sans numero, for the private parks 
of the best palazzos allow only carriages 
without numbers to enter. 

The scene on the Pincio is just what it 
was in Hawthorne's day. Read his descrip- 
tion of it in the "Italian Note Book," and 
you will see it more clearly than I can make 
you understand. It is a continual fete 
champetre. 

One day, while we were obliged to stop 
on account of a jam in the ring of carriages 
that move slowly round and round the circle 
where the band plays, Ruth stepped from 
the vehicle to get nearer the beautiful foun- 
tain of Moses to make a little sketch of it. 
I sat alone listening to the glorious Italian 
band. And while my thoughts were thou- 
sands of miles away, and very near the one 
to whom this message goes first, some one 
spoke to me in French, and asked if I would 
have the goodness to go to his madame. It 



By the Way 149 

was the serving-man of our fellow-voyager, 
she of the same initials as my own. I looked 
in the direction he indicated, and there, not 
ten carriages back, she was, so hemmed in 
that it was impossible to drive alongside. 

As I left my seat and walked over to her, 
she met me with the radiant face and smiling 
greeting of an old friend. She is beautiful, 
with that inimitable something about her 
that attracts one, and I wondered if I should 
ever know what her name is. I knew for a 
certainty that I should never ask. She is 
not old, but gives one the impression that 
she has lived long enough to have "gathered 
the fruits of experience where once blossomed 
the flowers of youthful enthusiasm." 



The bells for Ave Maria had rung. The 
musicians were picking up their music. The 
Pincian Hill was deserted. Ruth sat alone 
in her carriage as this woman's hand grasped 
mine in reluctant parting. 

"Good night," I said. 

"Good nightr-' 



150 By the Way 



"Somehow or other our pathways met, 
How or why let the angels say. 
We never helped by a breath the wind 

That carried our sails each other's way. 
Call it whatever you will, sweetheart. 
Miracles even are christened 'odd'; 
But the touch holds fast where our lives have 
crossed, 
And the angels know that fate means God." 
Harriet Axtell Johnstone. 

72 Via Sistina, Rome. 

You recall my telling you of Mrs. F. on the 
ship — she whom I met on the Pincian Hill — 
and her invalid son ? Well, he was not her 
son. He is — her husband. 

It will be no breach of confidence to tell 
you the story, for should you ever meet her, 
you would never associate that smiling face 
and austere, calm demeanor with the broken 
heart they hide. 

It seems that the husband, in his youth, was 
rather "rapid"; and, in a mxost idiotic will, 
the father left him a large fortune, provided 
that, on his twenty-fifth year he had been 
married to a woman at least ten years his 
senior. It was stipulated that the woman 



By the Way 151 

was not to know the conditions of the will 
until after the marriage, so that she might 
be some one of worth and character, capable 
of caring for the money. 

No wonder it sobered the poor young man. 
He swore that he would never marry, and 
that those who were ready to grasp the 
fortune, should he fail to "keep the bond," 
might have it, and be — happy. 

But fate took him to the home of a class- 
mate in one of the Eastern college towns, 
where he met and fell in love with this 
woman whom I have described to you. He 
had no idea she was older than himself until 
he had made her a proposal of marriage. 
She, of course, refused what she conceived 
to be a foolish boy's fancy. He sent for 
his mother, and together they set them- 
selves to win the lady of his choice, after 
the mother had "looked her up" — and 
down — as mothers of precious boys are wont 
to do. 

In the mean time the young man was taken 
very ill, in his delirium calling for his love, 
who finally, at the physician's urgent request, 



152 By the Way 



came to the bedside, and, with the mother, 
cared for him. 

It had gotten to the day before his twenty- 
fifth birthday. The mother was frantic at 
the thought that her convalescent son was 
to lose his fortune. He cared little for the 
money, save that it would enable him to 
shower favors upon this love of his. He 
begged her to marry him that night to save 
him from some great trouble — if she ever 
regretted it for one moment she should be 
free — that he could not in honor tell her why 
it was so necessary that the marriage be 
solemnized at once. She had grown fond of 
him, yet naturally hesitated to do either him 
or herself injustice. Finally, his helpless- 
ness and his mother's agony proved too much 
for her, and just before the midnight they 
were married at the bedside. 

And now comes the foolish vow she made 
a condition of that marriage^that, as soon 
as he was able they should go abroad, and 
that she should be known as his mother. It 
was this pride of hers that wrought all the 
misery. 



By the Way 153 

In another week they had started for 
Europe, and I have accounted to you the 
strange manner in which their names ap- 
peared on the ship's register. It served as 
a safeguard against inquisitive people, and 
every one took it for granted that they were 
mother and son — and she a widow. 

Everything went merrily for the young 
husband. He cared not what the world 
thought so he had her to himself. But not 
so with the wife. Men are not slow to find 
so charming a woman, and here in Rome, I 
fancy, two hearts are bleeding instead of one. 

The husband did not improve as they had 
hoped. She called a physician to whom 
they had letters — and presto! they find their 
affinity. 

The woman, of course, sees and feels it 
first, and intends to tell him of her true re- 
lation toward the sick man; but one night, 
after a long hard day at the bedside, he asked 
her to give him the right to help her care for 
her son. 

It came so fast and unexpectedly that the 
avowal was made before she could stop it. 



154 By the Way 

No one knows what she said, but somehow 
he knew she loved him. The next day the 
true relations of the husband and wife were 
made public, and shortly after they moved 
to another part of Rome. 

How I hated that doctor when I first 
learned all this. I had not seen him then, 
but now I am as sorry for him as for her. 
He is a splendid fellow — just such a man as 
she should have for a mate. He is, perhaps, 
slightly her senior, with a kindly gray eye, and 
features finely chiseled. He dresses with 
exquisite quietness, has the atmosphere of a 
thorough gentleman and a knight of the new 
chivalry. 

But I have had all my worry, as is usual 
with that sort of thing, for nothing. The 
doctor has departed for Natal, to battle with 
his sorrow alone. He is too generous to sub- 
ject her to the pain of meeting him again. 
He came to bid me good by, and I have 
promised to keep him informed of anything 
that happens to my Lady. Better, I have 
given him letters to my fair Mary, a charm- 
ing English woman I met on the house-boat. 



By the Way 155 

who lives there. He is going through the 
shadows, but I pray he may soon see the 
Hghter tints of blue. A noble-hearted man 
is the grandest work of God ! 



72 Via Sistina, Rome. 

How glad I am that I saw dear old Eng- 
land first, for it seems very young when com- 
pared to this. Everything here is twenty 
centuries or more old, therefore you may 
imagine that, by comparison, things only a 
few hundred years old are yet in their in- 
fancy. Apropos of age, while at Oxford, the 
guide, a student, told us with much solem- 
nity, that Magdalen College "was built in 
1490 before you were discovered." The 
doctor said, "Well, what of it?" I was 
shocked at the good doctor, and was much 
impressed by its great age; but I understand 
the doctor's sarcasm now, for he had recently 
returned from Rome. 

The "oldest church in Rome," however, 
reminds one of "the favorite pupil of Liszt." 
I am meeting with them still. 



T56 By the Way 

The most magnificent place in Rome, after 
the Vatican, is the Villa Borghese (bor-gay- 
zay), not only on account of the beautiful 
park which contains numerous ornamental 
structures, little temples, ruins, fountains, and 
statues, but also on account of the collection 
of antiques in its casino, or gallery. It is 
here that Canova's marble statue of Pauline 
Borghese is exhibited, to me, the most beauti- 
ful marble in Rome. Here, too, is Titian's 
first great work. Sacred and Profane Love. 
I fear that Titian saw life from many view^- 
points. 

Imagine one going from the sublime to the 
ridiculous — from the gorgeous Borghese 
Villa to a Rag Fair. A Rag Fair is an open- 
air sale of everything that can be thought of, 
from a garter-clasp to a diadem. We went 
for old brass candlesticks of the seven- 
pronged, sacred variety, afterwards con- 
tinuing on to St. Peter's to have some things 
blessed. I am afraid the pope's blessing 
was nullified by the looks of the attendant 
when we gave him the fee which we thought 
ample for his trouble. 



158 By the Way 

We were repaid for mounting an incline of 
1,332 feet up through the dome of St. Peter's 
by the view of all Rome, the Vatican gardens 
and the pope walking in them on that beau- 
tiful sunshiny morning. 

Mrs. F. joins us quite often now. Her 
husband is gaining every day, and she has 
been so constantly in the sick-room that he 
begs her to go out. She is very original, and 
reminds me of Harrie with her clever sayings. 
The other day she wrote me a note asking if 
she might come to see me for a few moments, 
adding, "the only place I breathe below my 
tonsils is in your room." I do not know if 
she knows that I know (a la Cranford) of 
her secret or not, but this I do know, she 
has a beautiful soul, and my heart bleeds 
for her. 

She asked me one day, if I thought it 
possible for a married woman to have gen- 
tlemen friends, or comrades, and still be true 
to her husband and herself. I was about to 
reply "yes," when I bethought myself of 
Harrie's answer to a similar question, so I 



By the Way 159 

said, "The woman could, but the man, 
never!" 

'T'm afraid you have not known all sorts 
of men; I know men who are as good and 
true as any woman," she replied. 

"There you mistake me," I said, "for I 
have known good and true men, so many, in 
fact, that I would trust them before women 
in everything but love." 

"I thought it was in love that men shone." 

"It is, but not the sort of love they give to 
married women," I replied. 

She went with us Thursday to the church 
San Paola alle Tre Fontane (St. Paul of the 
three fountains). It is kept by Trappist 
monks, a silent order. They never speak to 
each other, but make up for it when visitors 
come. We had a dear "brother" show us 
the objects of interest, and he presented each 
with a wee drinking-glass to measure out the 
Eucalyptus wine which they make there, and 
which, thank heavens, I can drink. 

You know how stupid I am about what 
I drink, and it is even worse over here. It 



i6o By the Way 

makes me have "ingrowing nerves" to be 
obliged to explain vi^hy I do not drink this 
or that. I believe I love Mrs. F. because she 
never asks "why." 

The three fountains are flowing clear as 
crystal, and whether or not the head of St. 
Paul jumped three times on these spots, as 
tradition has it, it matters little; but the 
simple faith of the sweet-faced sisters who 
knelt and drank from each spring and arose 
freed from some claim was touching, and far 
from provoking the mirth that some people 
feel toward these devout pilgrims. 

En route home we stopped at the English 
cemetery and plucked a flower from the grave 
of Keats and of Shelley and of Constance 
Fenimore Woolson. 

We saw Hilda's tower, too, that day. I 
had occasion to thank Hawthorne, and in- 
cidentally Ida BeUe, for "The Marble Faun" 
and "Italian Note Book," otherwise I should 
not have been able to relate the story of 
Hilda and her tower. In truth, all Italy 
would have remained as a closed book to me 
had it not been for my three "H's," as Ruth 



By the Way 



i6t 



calls them — Hawthorne, Howells, and Hut- 
ton. The latter says, in his "Literary Land- 
marks of Rome," that the "Italian Note 
Book" is still the best guide to Rome that 




BASILICA, ST. Paul's (without the walls) 

has ever been written, and that one should 
read it before coming, again while here, and 
yet once more after returning home. 

I shall say the same about the Landmarks, 
for without them, much of the charm I have 
found here would have been lost. 



1 62 By the Way 

Yesterday we bade St. Peter's good by on 
our way to Sant' Onofrio. Here, again, a 
bright young frere showed us over the church 
made most interesting from its association 
with Tasso. There are some excellent 
paintings in the lunettes under the colonnade 
of the cloisters. 

It is a great pleasure to show Mrs. F. 
anything. Her appreciation is keen. She 
knew little of the literary landmarks which 
she passed each day. I had pointed out to 
her the house where Keats lived, on the left 
as one goes down the Spanish steps, the 
house of Shelley on the right, with the lodg- 
ings occupied by Byron almost directly 
opposite. 

On our return from Sant' Onofrio, she 
inquired of the coachman if the horses were 
tired, and upon his answering that they were 
good for several hours, she turned and in a 
low voice asked me to remain with her as long 
as possible. I understood. From a list of 
streets and numbers which I had with me, 
we selected such as we wished to visit. 

On the via di Bocca di Leona we found the 



By the Way 163 

home of the Brownings; close by, the house 
that sheltered Thackeray in Rome; and not 
far away, the place where Adelaide Sartoris 
lived. In rapid succession then we made 
''little journeys" to the Italian homes of 
Louise Alcott, Helen Hunt Jackson, George 
Eliot, and the house where Mrs. Jamison 
held Sunday soirees in a wee two-by-four 
room. We should have been going yet, I 
do believe, had not my back and front bone 
met with hunger ; but my precious friend had 
been saved from herself. Mr. Hutton and 
I did good work, for after all other sights had 
failed to interest, our ( ?) literary landmarks 
succeeded in saving the day. 

Grand Hotel delle Belle Arti, 

CoRSO Cavour, 

Orvieto. 

After the rather strenuous day, the account 
of which closed my last letter, we settled up 
our affairs in Rome, heard for the last time 
the pope's angel choir, sent off our luggage 
to Boulogne-sur-Mer, purchased our tickets 
through to that port, with innumerable stop- 



164 By the Way 

overs, which cost two hundred and sixty-two 
liras — the tickets, not the stop-overs — and, 
hardest of all, bade good by to our friends. 

Just before we were leaving, Mrs. F.'s 
footman brought to the door of our compart- 
ment in the traveling carriage an armful of 
roses and a letter. The flowers brightened 
all the hot dusty day — but the letter — oh, 
that letter will brighten all the years that 
may come to me, and I have tucked the 
precious words away in the warmest corner 
of my heart, to be taken out on the rainy days 
of hfe and fondled like some of childhood's 
memories. 

I did not see her again after she left me at 
the door that evening, nor had she spoken 
one word to indicate that she knew that I 
knew. She paid me the highest tribute of 
friendship — silence. 

Among other things in the letter, she said : 
"The Catholic Church has not a monopoly 
of 'ears that hear yet hear not, eyes that see 
and are blind,' for I find in you one who is 
built fine-grained enough not to mistake 
silence for stupidity, nor to consider the ab- 



By the Way 165 

sence of an interrogation mark as lack of 
sympathy. . . . You need never be 
ashamed of your tears. Large natures fill 
to the brim, and sometimes, of necessity, 
overflow. At such times, God pity us if our 
friends ( ?) must needs stand round with 
pitchers to catch all they can and carry it 
home for family use. The very evident fact 
that your beautiful companion knows noth- 
ing of my sorrow stamps you as a splendid 
friend, and I want you for such. . . . God 
may have been in a just mood, but he was 
not in a merciful one, when he made woman 
and put her in the same world with man. 
". . . I am a bundle of tangled wonder- 
ings this morning, that I am too weary to un- 
ravel. . . . This is not an 'interesting 
landmark,' nor yet an Ttalian journey'— 
it is a thorny path, which I must travel alone 
with bleeding feet. Your going has taken 
away my strongest staff. You have been 
bravely permitting me to lean on you, too 
hard I fear, these last days, but you under- 
stand — you understand — and understand- 
ing — forget! . . . 



1 66 By the Way 

"I should come to you in person to bid you 
good-speed, but I should break down and 
only poison your day with my gloom, so 
I am sending you this — non-conductor." 

I left the Eternal City with a heavy heart. 
I would remain there forever, if you were only 
there; but, if you were, you would probably 
be a priest. I would rather be there myself 
and you earning the bread in some other 
place. 

My new heart' s-sister (new if we count 
friends by that base estimate — time) remains 
amid all the grandeur of ancient, and all the 
fascinations of modern, Rome! 

No wonder Mrs. Ward sent her weakest 
heroine here to hide. If you ever lose me, 
and suspect that I am in hiding, hunt for me 
in Orvieto, though it is doubtful if your 
search would be successful. I had heard 
nothing of the place until I read Eleanor, 
but now, if I were a guide-book, I'd put five 
asterisks before it and six in front of it's 
cathedral. You will understand how I feel 



By the Way 167 

about it when I tell you that most of the 
guide-books never use more than two stars 
to indicate the superlative. Loomis, in his 
wildest flights, sometimes uses three, so I 
think five would about fit my estimation of 
the Orvieto of to-day. The Duomo is built 
of alternate courses of black and white stone, 
the first of that sort I have seen, with a 
fa9ade gorgeous with marble sculpture and 
mosaics. 

The town is on the top of a mountain, up 
the almost perpendicular sides of which it 
is reached by a f unicolare (cable tramway) . 

SiGNORA ElVINA SaCCARO'S, 

Pension Tognazzi, 

Via Sallutio Bandini 19, 

Siena, Italie. 

I wish I might live here, on this street and 
in this pension, and have it all on my visiting- 
cards, and write it in my best style at the top 
of my letters. If it were engraved on my 
visiting-cards, and you should wish to come 
to see me, you would simply have to say to 
the cabman, "See-nyee-o-rah — Al-vee-nyee- 



i68 By the Way 

ah — Sah-chah-ro — Pe'n-see-yo' — Tog- 
natz-zee — Vee-ah — Sal-lut-chio — Bahn- 
dee-nee — Dee-chee-ah-no-vay." That's 
all, the last word being nineteen; but the 
entire address doesn't include the beautiful 
cloisters into which my windows open, for 
the place is an old monastery. 

The first I ever knew of Siena was from 
one of Lilian Whiting's books. She spoke 
of Symonds' history, and Mrs. Butler's 
biography of Katherine of Siena, and 
straightway I devoured them both. How 
little I thought then that I should walk the 
same streets and kneel at the same altar at 
which that saint knelt. I like her the best 
of all the saints 'T have met," for she loved 
to be alone and think things and build 
castles. 

Siena is a rival of Rome and Florence in 
mediaeval art and architecture. The churches 
are wonderfully beautiful, and filled with the 
choicest works of ancient and modern art- 
ists. The marble pavement and the carved 
white marble pulpit in the cathedral cannot 
be equaled. 



By the Way 169 

Pension Riccioli, 

CORSO DEI TiNTORI, 71, 

Florence, Italy. 

Three weeks in the art center of the world 
and not one letter written! The note-book, 
however, is getting so fat that it begs to be 
put on paper and sent away to you. My 
bank account is correspondingly lean, made 
so partly by the purchase of pretty carte- 
postales which carry the telegraphic messages 
across the sea, just to show that I'm alive, and 
that a letter is coming some fine day. 

If my porte-monnaie were not so trh maigre, 
I'd buy many copies of Howell's "Tuscan 
Cities," Hutton's ''Literary Landmarks of 
Florence," Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence," 
Mrs. Oliphant's "Makers of Florence," and 
Mrs. Browning's "The Casa Guidi Win- 
dows," and send to each of you with this 
inscription: "These are my sentiments." 

It was with a sense of lazy dehght that we 
wandered about Siena, watching the peasant 
women in their picturesque head-coverings, 
inhahng the atmosphere of mediaeval art and 
the restfulness that comes with it. In the 



lyo By the Way 

same leisurely manner, armed with numerous 
Leghorn straws, we turned our faces north- 
ward, and found pleasant rooms awaiting us 
here. 

Our house number reads as I have written 
it, but being translated signifies only the 
front entrance. Our windows look out on 
the Arno, and to the right I see the Ponte 
Vecchio — to the left, a bella vista which ends 
at Fiesole. 

The new Florence is broad and white and 
glistening : the old, is narrow, dark and 
massively rich. The Arno, like the Tiber, is 
a yellowish green. Its eight bridges are 
unique, ancient, and historic. The Lun- 
garno, down which we walk each morning, 
is odd and fascinating. It has on the Arno 
side a marble balustrade — on the other, little 
shops displaying jewels and precious stones 
which would tempt the soul of a female 
angel Gabriel. The display of turquoise, of 
which stone Florence is the home, is ravishing, 
yet sometimes — once, I think — we really go 
by without entering. The day we did not go 
in, however, we went by appointment to one 



By the Way 171 



of the shops on the Tornabuoni, where were 
arrayed some gorgeous ancient chains and 
rings of scarabs, the cartouche of which 
proved them to belong to some Egyptian 
potentate. 

The piazza della Signoria forms the center 
of Florence. It is surrounded by the Pal- 
azzo Vecchio, the Ufhzi, and the Loggia dei 
Lanzi. In the center is the fountain of 
Neptune. It was in this piazza that Savon- 
arola was burned. 

In the buildings just named, each a mas- 
terpiece of architectural beauty, are found 
many of the chef-d'ceiivres of the world. 
Florence overflows with so much that is 
ornate, it were difficult to make selections. 
Like poor Helen, 

"Were the whole world mine, Florence being bated, 
I'd give it all to be to her translated." 

Sometimes I think if I could have but one 
of these gems of architecture, I'd choose the 
Duomo, with its graceful facade and its cam- 
panile; but when I cross the street to the 
•Baptistery of San Giovanni, and gaze at its 
bronze doors, I change my mind, and give it 



172 By the Way 

first place. And thus the gods of art and 
beauty wrench my soul each day from one 
love to another. 

Now it is Santa Croce, with its w^ondrous 
wealth of marbles, where Ruskin— and I — 
spent many happy hours; but soon Santa 
Maria Novella has outshone them all, until 
the loveliness of the Medicean chapel wins 
my heart anew. 

Alas, so weak am I, that all the cathedrals 
sink into obscurity when the Uffizi Palazzo, 
with its Tribune, is seen. It holds the one 
perfect woman- — the Uffizi Venus. The 
Pitti palace and the Boboli gardens; the 
Bargello, with its unique staircase and court ; 
the Riccardi — in truth, all the wealth of in- 
comparable grandeur of artistic Florence 
have their place in my affections. 

The wealth, beauty, and royalty of Flor- 
ence are seen on the fashionable driveway. 
The Cascine is to Florence w^hat the Pincio 
is to Rome. There, in the late afternoon, 
society drives back and forth along the bank 
of the Arno, listening to the music of a 
military band. 




STAIRWAY, BARGELLO PALACE 



174 By the Way 

It is of little consequence how the artist 
gives expression to his soul's dream — whether 
by pencil, pen, brush, chisel, or voice, in 
marble, painting, song, or story — Florence is 
the home of them all. 

And Fiesole, ah, Fiesole by moonlight! I 
have walked up the Fiesolian hill, and taken 
the little electric tram, but last night I took 
you with me in a carriage. The others did 
not know you were there, so you and I 
''cuddled down" on the back seat. You held 
my hand and said never a word, but by that 
same blessed silence I knew you were drink- 
ing in the beauty of it all. 

As the strong horses pulled up the moun- 
tain side, you and I looked back at Florence. 
She lay off in the distant shadows, with the 
Arno at her feet — the Arno, no longer a yel- 
low, muddy stream, but a glistening, silvery 
ribbon, with the moonbeams dancing merrily 
on its phantom-like bridges. The towers and 
turrets were transformed into marble lace; 
the statues to golden cupids; the chimney- 
tops formed bas-reliefs; and the whole, a 
misty shadow-picture. Even Florence was 



By the Way 175 

improved by the witchery of "that old man 
in the moon." The silvery unrealness of it 
cast a spell over us, making — 

". . . The longing heart yearn for 
Someone to love, and to be 
Beloved of someone." 

That's why I took you with me. 

When the top was reached we looked only 
at the fairyland in the distance. It is diffi- 
cult to idealize an ordinary little village, even 
if it be Tuscan, and this one has nothing to 
recommend it but a cathedral and some 
picturesque beggars. 

Returning another way, we passed Boc- 
caccio's villa, and in fancy, saw his merry 
party of lords and ladies seated in the arbors 
looking out towards La Bella Firenza over 
the now golden river Arno. 

Thus it was I left you in Florence. I 
could not find you when Ruth called out, 
"Are you going back with the cab, honey?" 



176 By the Way 

Hotel de Roma et 

Pension Suisse, 

Canal-Grande, Venice. 

If Florence was left behind in a memory of 
purple mist, the highroad between it and 
Bologna would awaken the most poetic per- 
son. The word highroad is a little creation 
of my own in this connection, but I feel sure 
you will believe it to be "high" when I tell 
you that Florence lies at the foot of the 
Apennines and Bologna at the sum.mit; and 
that the railway is, by some miracle of en- 
gineering, built up through and around these 
mountains. We threaded forty-five tun- 
nels, swung around numberless viaducts, 
crawled over heart-stilling trestleworks con- 
necting one peak wath another, and finally 
came out on top, much dirty and more tired. 

We arrived in Venice at twelve o'clock, 
midnight, at the full of the moon. It cannot 
be compared with my Florentine dream, for 
while they are both exquisitely lovely, they 
are different. There is nothing on earth 
quite like Venice by moonlight. 

All things lose perspective at close range, 



By the Way 



177 



or in the glare of the sun's rays, and Venice 
shares this disenchantment. It matters ht- 
tle what or how much one has read of Venice 
— to reahze its charm, its color scheme, and 




i^^«!f^- 



its uniqueness it must be experienced. For 
Venice is not a thing, it is an experience. 

We owned a gondola for a week. We 
lived in it, and I, sometimes, slept in it while 
we were being wafted from one place to an- 
other. 

There is the usual — oh, no! there is noth- 



178 By the Way 

ing usual in Venice- — cathedral, as in all 
cities, but St. Mark's stands out first and for- 
ever as, The Church of all churches. My first 
glimpse of this pile of precious stones was 
unexpected and most dramatic to me. 

There were no letters that morning, and I 
was just walking — I did not care where or on 
what. What's beauty and loveliness com- 
pared to One letter ? An arcade blocked 
the way, and not knowing — not caring — 
where it led, I passed in and through it. 
Chancing to look up, I found myself in the 
light of day, and straight before me, ablaze 
with the sunlight full on its facade, was a 
structure of lavish Oriental magnificence. 

"What is that ?" I cried aloud. 

''San Marco!" answered a number of soft 
musical voices in unison; and there stood by 
my side a little crowd of Italians, their dark 
eyes sparkling and white teeth showing, evi- 
dently pleased at my adoration, and most 
likely used to such surprises; I found out 
afterwards that the words "What's that" 
was all the English they knew. 

"San M-ahr-co, San M-ahr-co," they 



By the Way 179 

drawled in delight. For once their pleasure 
was real; they did not break the spell upon 
me by holding out the hand for a pourboire. 

St. Mark's is Moorish in design, and has a 
coloring both gorgeous and subdued. The 
richness of jewels and costly stones do not 
seem out of place here as in many Roman 
churches. Nothing could be too precious, 
too sumptuous, too rare, for this temple mag- 
nificent. 

The piazza of St. Mark's is a square paved 
with trachyte and marble. It has the church 
on one side, and on the other sides, old white 
marble palaces, in the arcades of which are 
now found shops of world-wide renown. 
The piazzetta leads one, between the Doge's 
palace and Libreria Vecchia, to the Grand 
Canal. 

Every evening a military band plays in 
the square, where thousands of tables and 
chairs are set out, by the owners of the cafes, 
in the arcades. It is like a vast, open-air 
drawing-room with a huge masquerade ball 
in full tilt. 

We climbed the Campanile and saw, be- 



mj - Spii 




ST. MAKK S 



By the Way i8i 

sides a beautiful sunset, the Alps, the Adriatic, 
and in the dim distance, the Istrian Mountain 
rising out of the sea. 

With but one day to give to Venice, or with 
a whole year at your disposal, there is only 
one thing to do — dream! Whether you rest 
in a gondola on the Lagune, drifting past the 
Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto, the Ghetto, or the 
Lido, listening to the gondolier calling out 
the names of the palaces as the boat glides 
by, or whether you stroll idly through the 
miles of churches and galleries containing 
the paintings, or sit in wondering awe before 
the vast area of mosaics in St. Mark's — it 
matters little — dream ! 

In truth, one cannot well avoid it, amid 
the "subtle, variable, inexpressible coloring 
of transparent alabaster, of polished Oriental 
marbles and of lusterless gold," as Ruskin 
puts it. 

Hotel d'Italie, 
Au BoRD DU Lac Como. 

Heavens! Just think of me writing 
"Como" at the top of my letters! I have 



1 82 By the Way 

pinched myself to see if I am really alive and 
here. The unreality of it all recalls what 
Mr. Howell's said after reading Ruskin: 
"Just after reading his description of St. 
Mark's, I, who had seen it every day for three 
years, began to doubt its existence." So I 
am beginning to doubt my own existence. 

The morning we left Venice I was nearly 
arrested by a man in a cocked hat, and on 
account of two other men in sailor hats. In 
short, I overstepped the etiquette of the gon- 
dolier most woefully. Our train left at the 
fetching hour of six, so I made an appoint- 
ment with our trustworthy Pietro to come 
for us in time. I think I have told you that 
the word "haste" is an unknown quantity 
here, and when Pietro was not at the door ten 
minutes before the time to start, I had the 
clerk call another gondola. As we were about 
to step into the boat, Pietro was seen drifting 
idly toward our hotel. 

He wasn't very indolent when he saw what 
was going on, and those two "sunsets" (I 
think that is my own, for in a sunset, do you 
not see the day-go ?) danced several kinds of 



By the Way 



183 



jigs up and down and sidewise, before me. 
Several others came to their assistance, among 
them the aforesaid cocked-hatted individual. 




THE LIDO, LOOKING TOWARD VENICE 



I told the clerk to tell them that I wished 
to conform to the rules, and to settle it their 
way. A summer breeze could not have been 
calmer than all became in the twinkling of 
an eye, but the cause of the calm was appar- 



1 84 By the Way 

ent when I settled the bill. Their under- 
standing of "settling it their own way" was 
to pay each of them, including the cocked- 
hat, but that was better than languishing in 
a dungeon for ever so little a time, n'est-ce 
pas, mon cher? 

Since then Milan has been visited — Milan, 
with its mammoth marble cathedral done in 
Irish-point pattern and with a papier-mache 
interior — but beautiful withal. Several days 
were spent at Menaggio on this lovely lake. 
Another at Villa Carlotta, where Canova's 
original and divinely beautiful marble 
Cupid and Psyche, stands in all its purity. 
Many more, sailing up and down these en- 
chanting waters, made green by the reflec- 
tion of the forest on the mountains surround- 
ing, and by the grounds of the wealthy Milan- 
ese, whose summer villas line its banks. 

Vineyards are scattered along the moun- 
tain side in terraces, and the brilliant green 
of the chestnut and walnut trees is blended 
with the dull grayish green of the olive and 
laurel. 



By the Way 185 

What is it that the poet says "makes all 
men kin" ? I really cannot recall it, but it 
must have been meeting a well-known face 
in a foreign land. Some years since, in the 
western part of America, I met the charm- 
ing and accomplished Mrs. G. Our lives 
merely touched, and we separated. Later, I 
met her in London, just before she was pre- 
sented to the Queen. Last May, in Rome, 
she recognized my voice in the gardens of 
Doria Pamphili, and now here, on the little 
boat which plies between the hotels on the 
banks of these heavenly waters, we greet each 
other again. 



Hotel d'Espagna, 
domodossola. 

Lake Lugano and Lake Maggiore are 
beautiful sheets of water, but they lack the 
romantic atmosphere of Como. I can re- 
call no other description so pleasing to the 
heart as well as the fancy as the eulogy to 
these lakes in Mrs. Ward's "Lady Rose's 
Daughter." And, by the by, every one is 



t86 By the Way 

reading it over here. How is it taking in 
America ? I think it the strongest book of 
the year. 

Rural Italy must be seen, to be appreciated, 
by tram, by boat, by steam, by old-fashioned 
diligence, and on foot. Its lakes and moun- 
tains, its valleys and vineyards, have been a 
source of continual surprise to me, and it is 
with a feeling of keenest regret that our last 
place in Italy is reached . 



Switzerland 

"Fair Switzerland, thou art my theme, 
Thy praise by day, by night my dream. 
My swelhng heart with rapture speaks; 
I love thy lakes and snow-capped peaks. 
Thy wooded glens my thought recalls, 
Thy mountain paths and Waterfalls. 
With praises I my verse adorn 
Of Jungfrau and the Matterhorn. 
Thy moon-lit nights and sun-lit days, 
For thee in song, my voice I raise. 
Thy name for right and freedom stand — 
I love thee, dear old Switzerland." 

Roland Phelps Marks. 



SWITZERLAND 




Hotel Beau-Rivage, 
Lucerne, Switzerland. 

Ah, Kate! dear old friend of 
my childhood! How little I 
thought that night in June, when 
you stood up and told the audi- 
ence "Beyond the Alps hes 
Italy," that some day those same 
Alps would lie between us. We 
have not only been ''beyond/' 
but over them. 

The soft pink glow of the early dawn hung 
over the village of Domodossola as the start 
was made for Switzerland. 

Our caravan consisted of four dihgences, 
two luggage vans, and a mounted guide, who 
knew every inch of the pass. He galloped 
from coach to coach, hurhng his instructions, 
like death warrants, to occupants and drivers, 
what to do in case of danger. 

Above the blowing of horns, the ringing 
of bells, and the answering shouts from the 
189 



T90 By the Way 

coaches, this guide's last command rang out 
loud and clear, ''Keep close together! Fol- 
low me! Come!" 

It was all as uncertain as life itself. How 
blindly and with what enthusiasm we enter 
the race, knowing nothing of what the day 
may bring! The creaking diligences started 
away with their freight of human souls, to 
follow — follow to what ? God only knows. 

Again, as in life — up and up — on and on — 
higher and higher — until the summit is 
reached at noon-day, and as the shadows 
lengthened in the waning of the day, we 
began the descent. 

That morning as the purple village was 
left behind, the road grew narrow and clung 
close to the mountain side. So close, in- 
deed, did we but stretch out the hand ever 
so little, we would touch its ruggedness. 
Sometimes the road widened into a mountain 
village, but ever and always on the other side 
was the deep, dark abyss. It varied in depth 
and blackness, or was filled with some moun- 
tain torrent, but the gloom was always 
there. 



By the Way 191 

The mountains themselves often smiled 
down on us, or laughed outright, as some 
sparkling, bubbling cascade could no longer 
keep within the channel time had worn for 
it in the rocky slope; yet the same rippling 
waterfall that had danced right merrily down 
from its snowy source, became stern and 
cruel after it had crossed the road under us 
and joined the somberness of the cavern. 

If the glare of the sun partially dispelled 
the glamour the moon had cast over Venice, 
how vastly more does close proximity to the 
Alpine village of song and story dissipate its 
charm. As every gleam of sunshine must 
cast a shadow somewhere, so the splendor of 
the Alps must needs be balanced by the mate- 
riality of its inhabitants. 

Of the forty miles from Domodossola, 
Italy, to Brigue, Switzerland, the first ten per- 
haps is almost entirely inhabited. These 
people live on the road, their huts snuggling 
close to the mountain. The little patches of 
ground that are tilled lie straight up the 
mountain side, and upon these sides, too, 
their sheep graze. One of the witcheries of 



19^ By the Way 



the region is the tinkhng of the tiny bells 
tied around the necks of the sheep. 

Before reaching Iselle, where the customs 
is paid, the longest of the Simplon tunnels 
is passed through, and a block of granite 
marks the boundary line between the two 
countries. 

Along the route the drivers had often to 
call out, that the women and children might 
make way for the coaches. The children 
would offer fruit or flowers, running along 
with the vehicles and calling out the little 
English that had been picked up — "Good- 
a-bye!" "Kiss-a-me!" ''Hur-rah up!" but the 
smiles soon turned to tears if no pennies were 
thrown to them. 

Sometimes in the distance there seemed 
to be a mammoth pile of rock or debris ob- 
structing the roadway, which on being ap- 
proached, was found to be part of an aval- 
anche tunneled out for the passageway. 
These are termed "galleries" to distinguish 
them from the usual tunnels. 

Away up on a high point an old hospice is 
seen, to be reached only by pedestrians. 



By the Way 193 

These are refuges for the mountain-dimbers, 
and particularly for those injured. Some 
of them were built by Napoleon, others by 
monks, and yet others by those who have lost 
friends in the mountains. 

Far up among the clouds is a bridge re- 
sembling a tiny toy. Long hours afterwards 
when the summit of the peak is reached, and 
when the road seems to end abruptly, the 
bridge comes into view again spanning some 
yawning gulf. Then it is that the guide goes 
over first, alone, and each coach follows 
slowly, careful that but one be on the struc- 
ture at the same time. 

Once while crossing from one peak to an- 
other, the gorge below seemed filled with 
white smoke. The guide pointed it out as 
something rarely seen save in the early morn- 
ing. It was the clouds. Some thousands 
of feet below these same clouds were above 
us — we were now above them. 

The sensation was awful. "Look!" 
"Lookl" cried the guide, pointing down into 
the moraine. The clouds had separated, 
and the rain could be seen pouring on a little 



194 By the Way 



village far below, while the sun shone bright 
on us. 

"Where is that rain coming from ?" asked 
a passenger. "God only knows," replied 
the guide. 

The sunshine is not warm among these 
snowclad peaks. It was bitter cold. The 
crunching of the snow under the iron hoofs 
of the horses was the only sound to be 
heard. 

At the village of Simplon where luncheon 
was served, and where the horses were 
changed, the luggage vans were raided for 
warm wraps and rugs. 

Half a mile from the village of Simplon the 
remains of a big avalanche were encountered. 
Men were at work clearing the roadway and 
the guide ordered every one to dismount 
and walk across, the drivers leading the 
horses. 

When "the road grew wider," it should 
not inake a mental picture of a broad road- 
way. It is wide only in comparison with 
the narrow mountain pass, cut out of the side 
of the cliff, making a sort of ridge of suffi- 



By the Way 195 

cient width to permit but one vehicle at a 
time. There are places cut deeper into the 
rock so that two may pass. A stone parapet 
runs along the ledge next to the precipice to 
prevent accidents should the wheels come 
too near the edge. 

At the highest point, 6,600 feet, this para- 
pet was broken. An accident to a private 
carriage had caused the break, and resulted 
in loss of life. The workmen who were re- 
pairing the wall had been called to assist in 
clearing the low^er road of the avalanche over 
which we had been obliged to walk. 

It was at this point that one of our horses 
balked. The road, so narrow that it 
scarcely permitted the passage of the dili- 
gence — the parapet entirely gone for a dis- 
tance of many feet — the gorge, deep and 
black, with a roaring torrent, too far down 
to be seen — the very heavens weeping at our 
misery — here it was, the horse chose to be- 
come unmanageable. 

The two in the box seat behind the driver 
did not realize what was happening until a 
shriek from some one in the body of the coach 



196 By the Way 

caused the entire party to turn. The driver 
yelled ''Jump! Jump toward the mountain- 
side." 

God grant that rarely on human sight 
may dawn such a scene, horrible only to 
those who had occupied the coach a second 
before. The back wheels were over that 
fearful ledge, the diligence just tottering. 
One moment more, made heavy by its human 
load, one quiver of the now terrified beasts, 
and the whole would have been engulfed in 
the depths of that seething torrent. 

We had jumped at the first word of com- 
mand — jumped as one body. One second 
and it would have been too late. And the 
old coach, relieved of our burden, had bal- 
anced itself in an almost human manner, as 
if it, too, clung to life. 

We stood crouching away from the gorge 
against the wet side of the rock, the driver 
unnerved, one horse sick, another unruly, and 
the leader balky. The entire cavalcade had 
begun the descent, and there was no stopping 
when once under way until a valley was 
reached some seven miles below. There 



By the Way 197 

was nothing to do but wait, and pray that 
the guide would miss us and send help. 

The awesomeness of that scene had time 
to imprint itself on my very soul, for the 
hours spent on that Alpine peak, I count as 
the most stirring years of my life. 

Help came, or I should not be writing this. 
But, grateful and overjoyed as we were to 
see a fresh horse and two men on its back, 
coming to our aid, the result was even more 
terrifying than the present experience. 

The guide had missed us when, as was his 
wont, at the first stop, he galloped back from 
coach to coach. Fortunately it was near a 
hospice, where he procured two men and a 
powerful horse, and sent them after us. 

Surely God had, 

"One arm 'round thee, 
And one 'round me, 
To keep us near." 

The driver and his helper had hardly dis- 
mounted from the back of the new horse when 
the wild creature reared around, and started 
on a mad gallop down the slope. He 
tripped, thank heavens, on a strap that had 



198 By the Way 

become loosened from his trappings, and 
was caught. 

That the new driver was a fiend was ap- 
parent from the cruel manner in which he 
treated the runaway. I am still uncertain 
what his excuse was for living. He was so 
hideous he was unique. After he had 
pounded the horses he turned his attention 
to the passengers. Ruth and I were ordered 
out of the box seat into the coach. It was 
impossible to crowd us all inside, and he was 
obliged to submit to our remaining above. 
The hood was closed, the boot drawn up, and 
we were strapped securely to our seats. The 
doors were locked on those inside. These 
were his instructions from the guide. 

The three drivers mounted in front of us, 
and, while we were thankful to be in the 
open air, and to be able to view the wonderful 
scenery around us, we were also compelled 
to witness the inhuman treatment of the ani- 
mals. 

In this manner we began the descent. 

The fiend had the reins and the long whip, 
the others had prods, and used them on the 



By the Way 199 

balky and the sick horse. The fresh horse 
took the lead, dragging the others after him. 
On, and on, and on we flew, now under wild- 
roaring cataracts, whose waters thundered 
down on the rocky roof of the tunnels under 
them- — now over frail bridges, which trem- 
bled with our speed — now down slippery, 
ice-covered stretches. They did not stop at 
the first plateau, fearing, I suppose, they 
would never get the horses started again. 

The fiendish shouts of the drivers, the 
cries of the occupants, locked inside the 
coach, the swaying and groaning of the old 
diligence, the almost human moans of the 
ailing horse, and the audible heaving of the 
others, blended with the warning cries of the 
natives, who stood aside, aghast at our mad 
speed. 

Down, down, down! The white peaks 
grow fainter and fainter, until they are lost 
in the blue mist. The incline becomes less 
steep. The little farms look like window- 
panes set up in air, and the sun goes 
down behind the purple mountains. The 
beautiful valley of the Rhone spread out be- 



200 By the Way 

low, like a celestial vision. The sun, which 
has hidden its face from us behind the walls 
of rock at our side, is shining clear and strong 
on the sublime scene. 

Suddenly, after a long curve had been 
rounded, the Rhone, bathed in a flood of 
golden fire, comes into view. Across the 
yawning gulf the mountains, on the other 
side, take on the same glorious hue. 

It is the Alpine glow! 

Yet on and down we go, never stopping 
the wild pace until the horses dash into the 
courtyard of the inn at Brigue, and one of 
them falls lifeless. 



Lucerne, Switzerland. 

Switzerland is one of the places whose 
charm is enhanced by the glare of the sun. 
But Switzerland does not have many oppor- 
tunities to endure glare of anything, for it 
rains almost continually. The "weeping 
skies of Ireland" cannot compare with it. 

Lake Geneva, as it winds around Lau- 
sanne, is extremely pretty, and lake Lucerne 



By the Way 201 

has quite the most picturesque surround- 
ings possible. It nestles down among the 
Alps, with Rigi on one side and the beautiful 
town on the other. And Lucerne is a beau- 
tiful town, built in a curve in the Alps, with 
towers and battlements on its walls. Sailing 
away from it, it presents a picture altogether 
different from anything else I have seen. 

It took some days for me to recover from 
that mad ride down the mountains. After 
the effects of it had passed, I could but think 
how very near the ludicrous is the sublime. 

Death by climbing up or falling down 
these Alpine heights would be, perhaps, ro- 
mantic ; but to be backed over a precipice by 
a common balky horse could not be other- 
wise than ignominious. 

Now, too, I recall some of those senseless 
questions women ask. One woman cried, 
"Oh, where will we go if that harness 
breaks ? " The fiend replied, "Not knowing 
your past hfe, Madam, I can't say. I'm 
pretty sure, though, where I'll go." 



202 By the Way 

Grand Hotel Victoria, 
Amsterdam, Holland. 

I have actually found some places that I 
do not like, and I am glad of it. I have used 
up all my adjectives and exclamations. I 
did not care for Zurich, and many of the 
Rhine towns found no favor in my eyes. I 
saw most of them only from the river about 
which we have heard so much that, naturally, 
it failed in the realization of my anticipations. 
Besides, it rained much of the time. 

Heidelberg, Dusseldorf, and Mayence are 
splendid. I mean to return to them some 
day and enjoy them at my leisure. 

The small portion of Germany which I 
have seen reminds me of America, and the 
railways there have quite the best service in 
Europe. 

I overheard a conversation between two 
American girls on the boat up — or down — 
the Rhine. Every time I say "up" the other 
person says "Down, wasn't it ?" and when I 
change it to "down" I am asked "Up, wasn't 
it?" 

The first girl was saying, in a tired-to- 



By the Way 203 

death manner, "I saw EVERY church in 
Rome!" 

"Ah, indeed! How long a time did you 
spend in Rome? You knew, did you not, 
that there are over four hundred churches 
there ?" sarcastically asked the other. 

"Four hundred!" shouted the first girl, 
never noticing the sarcasm, "four hundred! 
I'll bet I tramped through a thousand!" 

I can sympathize with that first girl. 

The cathedral at Cologne is very fine. It 
is built in two distinct styles of architecture. 
The legend runs that the first architect sold 
his soul to the devil for plans unlike any other 
church in the world. When he had it half 
finished he disappeared, and the plans with 

him. 

I suppose he and the devil became too well 
acquainted with each other, and perhaps he 
ran in to see him every day — which is enough 
to tire even the devil himself — so he put the 
architect out of the way. Be that the case 
or not, the church was commenced in 1248, 
and only recently finished, in a modern 
fashion. 



204 By the Way 

What a difference it makes to have a friend 
residing in a foreign city. I posted a letter 
to Marie from Cologne, and as I was break- 
fasting the morning of my arrival here her 
visiting-card was brought to me. She has 
made our stay in this quaint city a bright 
green spot in the oasis of hotel life and hus- 
tling for one's self. 

You remember she was but a girlish bride 
when I first met her, and she has improved 
with a maturer grace of person. Both she 
and her handsome husband have that calm, 
quiet, but delightful, formal charm of man- 
ner which distinguishes the cultured for- 
eigner. 

She has driven us over this picturesque old 
town; taken us to the palaces, and to the 
Royal Rijks museum. We have walked with 
her through her favorite haunts in the parks. 
She has made a martyr of herself and showed 
us through the shops — and have you ever 
heard of the lovely shops of Amsterdam ? 
But, best of all, we have had a bit of home 
life, and Marie, bless her heart I has given 
us the first cup of real coffee we have 



By the Way 



205 



had since we left home — with real cream in 
it, too! 

I cannot tell you much in detail about the 
splendid school of art here, for — let me whis- 
per it to you — I did not get a guide-book of 




AMSTERDAM 



Holland. Marie and her good husband left 
little for us to glean. But this I do know, 
that, in all our travels, no more comprehen- 
sive and beautiful collection of art treasures 
have we found. 

The building itself is magnificent, and the 
masterpieces are all Flemish. I gladly re- 



2o6 By the Way 

tract what I said, in Paris, of Rubens. His 
"Helen Fourment," Rembrandt's "The 
Night- Watch," and a portrait by Van Dyke 
are among those which I recall. 

Holland is a quaintly picturesque country. 
Everything that Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, 
that exquisite word-etcher as well as painter, 
has said of it is true. 

But the language! And the money! Oh, 
the money is impossible. 

Now, I call Ruth a brilliant woman, and 
one vastly above the average intellectually; 
and you know that, while I'm not an expert 
accountant, I can do "sums" once in a while. 
Well, neither of us have learned to pronounce 
nor do we yet know, the value of the thing 
which takes the place of the franc. It is 
spelled g-u-1-d-e-n — most Americans call it 
gilder, but it is no more like that than it 
is like horse. In fact, it is not unlike the 
last word, when a native gets his tongue 
around it. 

As to its value! I have taken goods for it 
to the value of a penny and of a half-dollar. 
I simply take the change given me and go. 



By the Way 207 

The other, hke Thoreau's friend, has both 
the first word and the last. How awful! A 
woman can never talk back in this language. 



Hotel Belle-Vue et Flandre, 
Brussels, Belgium. 

Mr. Elbert Hubbard tells, in one of his 
Little Journeys, how, when his ship landed 
in Antwerp at eleven o'clock in the morning, 
he walked to the hotel and awakened the 
landlord from his early morning nap in order 
to get some breakfast. I cannot speak from 
experience as to what hour they arise, but I 
do know, from very close association with the 
people, that they do not know what sort of 
money they use. 

At the door of the cathedral, where we 
went to see Rubens' chef-d'xuvre, The De- 
scent from the Cross, the woman at the door 
refused to take one of those coins of which I 
do not know the value; but, when I tried a 
little dramatic action, and turned to go, she 
took it very readily, and permitted us to 
enter. The same scene was gone through 



2o8 By the Way 

at the door of the really exquisite museum; 
but it did not work at the station. 

We were using all our Belgian coins before 
going into France, and had saved enough for 
the porters at the station where we had left 
our hand luggage. The porter who brought 
our luggage from the train into the station 
had accepted the coin we gave him. The 
one we secured to carry them out to the train 
had reached our compartment, and demanded 
his money. 

I counted out the coins, which he refused. 
We had no other money. I tendered him a 
book, and finally my watch. He still re- 
fused, and would not permit us to put the 
things in the compartment. There was no 
woman in sight, and foreign men are so differ- 
ent from our countrymen that we could not 
bring ourselves to ask aid from them; be- 
sides, we did not speak Flemish. 

It was absolutely necessary that we reach 
Brussels that night, and had we gone back 
and gotten the money changed, it would have 
necessitated our remaining over Sunday in 
Antwerp, where we had exhausted everything 



By the Way 209 

of interest. We were becoming desperate, 
when good fortune smiled on us in the form 
of a pair of girhsh black eyes. 

I asked her if she spoke Enghsh. She 
shook her head. 

"Parlez vous Fran^ais?" and, oh, joy, 
''Mais un peu," she rephed. 

I made known our dilemma, and she very 
sweetly settled with the facteur for about half 
the amount he had demanded of me. 

Who shall say there is not a free-masonry 
among women ? There, in a strange coun- 
try, with not a cent of that country's coinage 
in my pockets, knowing no word of its lan- 
guage, came to my assistance a woman of yet 
another country, speaking nor understanding 
no word of my mother-tongue, and, in yet 
another language, which we both spoke indif- 
ferently, I asked and she gave aid with that 
same grave politeness which marks the no- 
blesse oblige everywhere. 

The next morning, dressed in our bravest, 
we had the concierge call the shiniest cab he 
could find, with the tallest-hatted cocher, and 
with the loveliest basket of roses that could 



2IO By the Way 

be procured, we drove in state to the address 
she had given us. We had a cordial greet- 
ing, but somehow I fancy she had been in 
doubt as to whether she would ever see those 
few francs again or not. 

You may rest assured that we had suffi- 
cient money changed at Brussels, and that we 
found numerous ways in which to spend it. 
Next to Venice, the lace shops here are the 
finest in the world. 



Boulogne-sur-Mer, France. 

"On the sea" is good, but "in the water" 
would more adequately express the situation 
of this little French town. It is quiet and 
restful, and that is the thing-needful just now. 

It is to be regretted that the big packet of 
letters, which awaited me here, full to over- 
flowing with questions, could not have been 
received earlier. The twelve hours of unex- 
pected waiting, caused by the delayed sail- 
ing of the ship, will give me, however, an 
opportunity to answer a limited number. 

You will receive this, one of you at least. 



By the Way 21 r 

before that happy day when I shall step foot 
upon my native land. 

Does it pay to come abroad for a short 
time ? It pays to come for a day. The ocean 
voyage pays for itself in itself. Nothing 
broadens one's life like touching the lives of 
others. 

And now, before leaving, you ask me to 
snm up my foreign experiences. Your re- 
quest reminds me of the old school-master 
who gave out, as the subject of a prize com- 
position, The World and its Inhabitants. 
Joking aside, this has been the most delight- 
ful, and at the same time the most miserable, 
year of my life. Comprenez vous ? 

I am not unmindful of all the opportuni- 
ties I have had to see God's beautiful world, 
nor do I fail to comprehend its broadening 
development. 

I have endeavored to digest all I have been 
privileged to see, and I think little has escaped 
that has been in my line of vision. 

Of all countries, I like England best. Yes, 
England! Dear, green, blossoming Eng- 
land ! 



212 By the Way 

Of all churches, St. Mark's in Venice. Of 
all cities, Paris and Florence. Of pictur- 
esque places, the lakes of Killarney and the 
lake of Lucerne. Of awesome grandeur in 
nature, the Giant's Causeway and on the 
heights of Switzerland. Of man's work in 
art and architecture combined, the Bargello, 
Fontainebleau, Versailles, and Raphael's 
Stanza and Logge in the Vatican. Of col- 
lected art in painting, that found in the gal- 
leries of Florence. Of collected art in sculp- 
ture, that found in. Rome. Of the subhme 
in nature, the sunsets on the Mediterranean, 
the moonlight on the Arno, and the Alpine 
glow on the Rigi. Of quaintness and quiet 
loveliness, Holland, with its bridges and 
windmills. Of all people, the upper class of 
the Irish and English. 

And the happiest moments spent among all 
this sublime array were those when reading 
my letters from the dear ones at home. 

I have been treated with charming cor- 
diality everywhere, and have met clever, 
cultured people, both foreign and American. 
I have, of course, seen and heard a few 



By the Way 213 

Americans similar to those of whom Ruth 
spoke in her letter from Eastnor Castle, the 
sort whose bragging brings the blood to 
their countrymen's faces, but I am happy 
to tell you they have been few. 

I should advise any one to come here with 
the full intention of enjoying everything, and 
not to criticise. If things are desired as they 
are in America, stay there. One comes to a 
foreign country to see things as they are, both 
antique, historic, and modern, and, most of 
all, to see the things which we have not. One 
is far happier to take things as they come and 
make the most of them. 

Culture comes high, at the very easiest, and 
in no way can one absorb so much or so well 
as by comprehensive observation while trav- 
eling. 

On Board S. S. Potsdam, 
English Channel. 

This will go back by the pilot. 

Soon after the last letter was posted, a 
carte-postale, a letter, and a cablegram were 
handed me by the purser. 




DFXK S. S. POTSDAM 



By the Way 215 

The first was from the young frere at 
Sailt' Onofrio, who has become a valued 
friend. He apprises me of the falHng of the 
beautiful Campanile at Venice. Quel dom- 
mage! 

The letter was from South Africa. The 
doctor is en route home. 

And the cable from Mrs. F. announces 
the death of her husband. This news I have 
been expecting for some days. 

Her hurried notes to me have borne only 
her initials. The cablegram she signed, for 
the first time, with her full name — the same 
as my own. 

The spelling is identical. 

Odd, is it not ? 



PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE 
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. 



APR 14 19C: 



